


The Shinra Files

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: The Files [1]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, Ranges from Rufus' childhood to adulthood, Shinra centric, TURK centric, Tseng/Rufus father son relationship, cloak and dagger, presidential schemes, slight deviant from canon, vice preseidential ambitions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 98,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes owning and running the world aren't all they seem. Background and sort stories on FF7s Turk and Shinra execs. Primary a Rufus and Turk centric archive that runs a gamlet of tales and tones all set pre game and focusing on the shadowy side of the Shinra empire and it's vice president.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Secret of Play

_ Stairway:  _

_The secret of play..._

It was amazing, how fast a child could become loss in the press of the crowd. Ignoring the veiled knowing looks from his peers, the new Turk grimly scanned the heads around him, hoping to catch the elusive strawberry blonde that would have been torso level with most of the adults present. No such luck. A quick glance at the feet around him didn't ferret out a pair of small white leggings, and Tseng was starting to get a bit worried. Only supreme will and training will kept him from... say frowning. Granted his lips did turn down -just a bit around the edges- and the numerous worry lines that were forming around his brow deepened, but those were minute changes. They were so small as to be negligible from the casual observer.

The older Turks assigned to his charge's father were not casual observers however. They noted, and snorted in scorn at his failure. Not concern, Tseng noted, just scorn. Any questions he would have felt but refrained from asking were answered, in the most discomfiting of ways.

"The newb seems to have lost your brat, sir." The mission leader noted coldly.

Eyeing the crowds, prepared to mingle with his peers, the elder Shinra shrugged, just that. The small gesture was enough to convey volumes of indifference, and it spurred the white clad woman who leaned upon the elder Shinra's arm to make a token protest.

"Perhaps... could we send someone to look for R-"

"He got lost, he can find his way back. Now shut up and at least pretend to be pleasant." When the woman -Rufus' mother- opened her mouth to protest more violently the elder Shinra exerted a tight grip on the woman's arm. "Come along dear." He hissed, his tone unpleasant as he all but dragged his wife along. "We need to mingle."

"Go after him, if you want." The mission leader grunted, then after waiting a short span he began to follow the elder Shinra.

Tseng considered all that had been said and unsaid. Clearly the boy Rufus wasn't important, yet he had tactic permission to do as he pleased. Silent, still, he realized it would be best to do his job. Abandon the boy and guard President Shinra, follow orders and nothing more. Tseng looked upon the dancers around him with a jaded regard. Black and white were the only colors as far as he could see, the colors evoked images of shadow and steel, the scent of expensive cigar hung about the men and women around him was reminiscent of the smoke that wafted around the slums, and about as aromatically appealing. Wrinkling his nose in distaste he considered the hands of those not dancing and smoking, they clasped red drinks.

Soon he'd be imagining blood and other dire things. Disgusted in part with the wealthy aristocrats and in part with himself, Tseng walked across the thick carpeted floor. He slid between the dancers, a restless shadow which cut through their little lands of polite distance and left those violated to glare at him in impotent anger.

You never crossed a Turk, even an "incompetent half blood foreigner" like Tseng. In this alien world ruled by Shinra power was the only satisfaction, and he used his with relish. The elevator was clogged with a mess of wealthy guests. If escape was the child's goal he'd more than likely find a different path that decided the Turk. He turned his back from the revelers and hunted up the familiar glaring red sign, reasoning that even a president, for all his vain glory, wouldn't hide the neon sign. Guests got edgy when they couldn't find a fire escape...

There were glances, numerous gazes, and they drifted towards him with interest. They picked out his path then dismissed him. Only a savage would be interested in escape at a time like this, with opportunity ripe for currying the president's favor... A savage... That title had been his name in Wauti for years, and he could almost here the word rattling around in those half empty skulls.

A sneer wanted to form on his lips, he checked the expression, and with a small shove pushed open the door and entered another world. It was a narrow world, as tall as it was thin, it redoubled upon itself, cement steps made a stark hard path marked with green stars that indicated the portals between floors and path. The place was as abundant with gloom and dust as the party had been with glamour and wine. A fastidious man having accidentally stumbled into this dreary world would have wrinkled his nose in disgust and ducked back into the glittering world build by the Shinra.

Tseng was a thorough man, not a fastidious one. He squinted at the gloom, taking every avenue of ambush with tired patience. Satisfied he was in no immediate danger the Turk closed the door behind him and began his descent. Odd sounds, laughter being one of them, came from some point below. Bemused, he allowed his ears to be his guild, considering how in this gloom his eyes were all but useless...

What he stumbled upon three turns down the stairway surprised him.

Small kitten clutched to his chest, a small boy sporting strawberry hued hair and a miniature white suit cast in the image of his father's had picked a small dusty corner as his own. Toys, small figurines cast in plastic baring some resemblance to those in SOLDIER, were scattered about the small landing. Oblivious, the boy happily made loud tromping noises necessary to carry the blue clad SOLDIER forward. The kitten mewed, squirmed, and with a laugh the boy let it down onto his lap.

With a fierce meow the small black creature pounced on the blue figurine, and folded its tiny fore limbs around it, kicking with his hind and biting with small white baby teeth.

Rufus laughed, moved to save the toy "Bad 'Nation. Bad cat!"

The "kitten" in question barked and let out a squeaky growl. It's gaze went up, and the boy's followed. With a gasp the boy hastily snatched up the toys and stuffed them into deep pockets, he looked ready to bolt. Not relishing the idea of a chase down the whole Shinra stairway Tseng lifted his hands to show peaceful intent and he worked his face into a smile that wasn't pure malice. The gesture seemed to surprise the boy, who froze after stuffing the last toy in his vest pocket. Of course considering how artificial his "friendly" smiles were, it might have been the smile more than the hands that made the boy stiffen like a corpse.

"Who are you, what do you want?" The boy's gaze was guarded, cold, and utterly adult.

Suppressing a shiver Tseng lowered his hands. "Your mother sent me." He offered. It wasn't a lie, more like a half lie, so it didn't cause Tseng's guilt the slightest stir. "She was worried."

Cocking his head to the side the boy considered him, his green eyes conveying worlds of distrust... and curiosity. The accent, Tseng realized, the boy had never heard anyone talk with so much of a trace of Wauti accent before.

"Father didn't send you?"

"You father..." Tseng checked the words "didn't care" with some effort. "-was busy."

The boy laughed at that, shook his head and snorted. Utterly adult in mannerisms... yet there was a secret of play squirreled away in those pocket. Tseng smiled then, a real smile, a warm one.

He understood, had found his own small hiding place where he'd left his toys. A plastic katana, the blade bent, a handful of shiny rocks from a stream were his "materia". Quietly he turned his back, made a show of scanning the upper levels. Curious eyes followed his every move as Tseng went to the rail and looked down. The Turk nodded to himself as if satisfied, and turned to face the young Shinra heir.

"This sector is secure, Mister Rufus Shinra. You may carry on."

The boy giggled at the Turk's professional tone, then slowly, -as if expecting Tseng to take back his words- pulled his toys out of his pockets and went back to his play.

 


	2. Slinky Slinky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I was little I had a slinky... And I was wondering, what do you get when you mix more stairs than one can count, Tseng, and a slinky together... This is the answer my mind provided. Written to "Tattered Slippers", by DrakeSword.

 

_ Slinky... slinky... _

He'd had the song stuck in his head for two days now. It was undignified to hum it, even more so to sing it, so he mentally writhed and squirmed as the simple lyrics ran through his head. It was torture; it went beyond cruel and unusual punishment and was torture. There was no other way to describe it.

The song was also fast becoming grounds for murder, fingering his gun he considered what would happen. As a Turk he was allowed to kill in the name of the Shinra, would the law look the other way if he killed for pleasure? Frowning he mounted the stairs. It had become his custom to eschew the elevator, and it was good exercise besides... Carelessly tromping over dust bunnies Tseng kicked aside what debris he found, making a mental tag to inform someone that the janitorial staff had been slacking again. As he began the first circuit a strange noise caught his ears, he stiffened, waited...

_Shink shink.._

He froze for less than a heartbeat, whirled... His gun cleared the holster in a second, he whirled, crouched. Some instinct telling him that the originator of the strange sound was coming in low.

_Shink shink shink..._

It rounded the corner, it's gait was a kind of lumpish rising and falling that made it shuffle forward. Fingering the trigger Tseng waited for it to shuffle into the light before shooting. After all, it might be some rouge creature from the Labs, and he didn't have enough power or knew anyone with enough rank to shield him from his own folly. Tseng squinted, his body still as he studied the thing. In the darkness it seemed... skeletal, flesh coiled upon flesh so tightly it could have been a coil. Then the thing made a grandiose sweep over itself and "stepped" out into the light.

It was all he could do not to shoot it, even though he knew it was harmless.

_Shink shink shink..._

Metal reached over itself, its own weight and gravity enough to propel it down the stairs. With a growl the Turk slid his gun in its holster and stared at the _thing_ the _abomination_ , that Reeve, newest head of urban development had completed. Undisturbed by his hostility the Slinky stepped down a few more miniature ledges with ponderous care to come to a stop at his foot. A faint glow shimmered around the thing, a shard of Barrier materia spread a faint force field around the toy, and it gently pushed off his shoe and began its slow way to the nearest wall. There, barrier power depleted it, it lost its momentum and came to a stop.

Frowning, Tseng picked it up, it tried to slither through his fingers, its weight drew it to the ground. Tightening his grip, the Turk stared at it for a long time, and then looked up at a muffled noise that was not related to the much hated Slinky at all. Annoyed green eyes fixed on him, the white clad boy frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

So engrossed in the toy Tseng had failed to realize he was alone. Granted he'd assumed since no one liked this dingy place save one other, and that other was fond of the higher levels not the lower... It was unprofessional of him, and as a Turk unprofessionalism could get him killed.

"If you're done trying to break paper weight, I'd like it back now."

Rufus Shinra flashed him a quick grin, then dropped it with his stereo typical scowl. Mutely Tseng handled the thing with the air of a man who held a dead rat. His expression saying louder than words just how close he was to pitching it over the edge of the rail.

"And I'm supposed to believe..." A quick glance reassured the Turk they were alone, so the young man allowed himself to speak as he would like, rather than how he must. "that this-" he jingled the toy. "-just got up and carried itself down the stairs?"

"That would be nice." Rufus admitted. "You must admit," The young Shinra added in response to Tseng's answering scowl, "-that it does walk all on its own."

"Out the door and down the stairs?" Tseng pressed, unbelieving. "However does it manage door knobs?"

"Simple." Rufus smirked. "It doesn't. I took the elevator up to the top floor and put it on the stairway at midnight."

Checking his watch Tseng scowled. "It is currently seven fifteen."

The boy shrugged, his eyes never leaving the toy.

"You have exactly fifteen minutes to take the elevator up to your room, change into clean clothes and meet me at the first floor so I can take you to school." Rufus yawned, tried to say something, but it came out somewhat jumbled by the gapping jaws. Still, experience told Tseng what the boy was going to say, or maybe it was exposure. "And this... this _thing_ is going into my pocket until you prove responsible enough to have it back."

Rufus whined a little, but the sleepy grumble was cut off by the stern no-nonsense glare Tseng pinned on him. Tseng had stared younger Turks and many overzealous reporters and photographers into the dirt with that look. Those who could generally did run screaming from the frosty death promising gaze. Rufus only turned on his heel and marched up the stairs, chagrined, but not shaken.

Rufus wasn't concerned about the Turk telling on him to his father. Rufus knew with the surety of childhood that he had little to fear from Tseng. Tseng was the man who had guarded his play, the one man who wouldn't report this "stunt" to the President. He reported little to his superiors, and the cold hard truth was that he reported nothing to the President. Even though he held the inglorious position of "babysitter to the brat" he never strived for promotion, never pined for power, or played the political or assassination games of his _betters._

He merely took Rufus to school, picked the boy up, and guarded him every second he wasn't on the school grounds. Sometimes -rarely- he would lounge in the boy's suite, watched the child struggle with his boredom and school work, and when asked, he offered his assistance. Rufus, in turn, would rarely seek the sanctuary of the stairway, making Tseng's job a great deal easier. The long winding path that folded upon itself and cut a zig-zag path up the flank of the Shinra building was filled with dangers, the least of them being the dust bunnies that coated the boy's leggings a dull grey. Assassins could be anywhere, and a zealot, would not be deterred by the dark dank path. White on black, Rufus would stand out swathed in his favorite color, oblivious to the world for his play... one madman, one bullet... Tseng banished the thought, and idly stuffed the toy into his suit pocket and began his way down. He paused in the main entry way, brushing dust from his hands and leggings, ignoring the scandalized glare of some secretary making her way past him.

With every step the Slinky chinked, it was a light sound that followed him were mildly curious, but dismissive. So long as he didn't talk no one paid heed to him, he was just another Turk to the world.

Just another Turk... with a Slinky in his pocket and an annoying advertisement tune stuck in his head. With a sigh, Tseng waited and considered asking Rufus if he could kill Reeve.


	3. Shinra Stripes

 

Shinra Stripes

They were walking down the halls that comprised of the Turk suite in the Shinra building. It was white, like the bulk of Shinra inc, the favored color of the vice president. Of course, if old man Shinra had known that his son's favorite color was white he'd have probably painted it all black. Still, the old man hadn't asked, and so the two Turks padded down the Rufus worthy monochromatic dream come true.

The destination of choice –correction Reno's destination of the moment- was the back stairway. It connected to every floor, and offered the Shinra cleaning personnel a back way into ever floor. Out of sight, out of mind, the less the lowly drudges of the company were seen the happier the president was. So despite how Tseng's worries of the stairway being used as a "potential security breach" the Turk commander kept his discontent to an occasional grumbled

"Come on, you know you wanna!"

Raising an eyebrow Rude turned to face his partner. His brown eyes had widened a hair at his partner's outrageous assumption; luckily for his image the black glasses he wore hid the expression. Unfazed by Rude's silence, Reno prattled on.

"It'll be fun, loads, I swear!"

"We're Turks, not children."

If that reprimand –a stern one, despite its mild tone to one outside of Shinra- was meant to stop Reno, it failed utterly.

"But were people, yo! Like, being a Turk doesn't mean we stop being people, right?"

"Well…"

"And being people, means we have our childish spats, right? Take Rookie for case and fact. You ever see someone fuss over their hair and skirt like that? Her childish thing is her looks!"

"She's a woman." Rude pointed out.

"So?"

Rude frowned then… Well he would have frowned if his customary expression hadn't been a frown. Since he was normally so grim and serious –a façade helped much by the fact that his coffee maker had decided to cough up and die _after_ spraying the wall with his morning beverage of choice- it was better said that instead of frowning the stern lines on his face deepened. There was a hole in Reno's logic… somewhere… and without his tri daily pick-me-up he was struggling intellectually speaking.

"It's not like that means anything. Anyways, whaddya know about girls or hair even?"

Rubbing his bare scalp with a hand, Rude admitted for the moment that Reno did have a point. He said as much by way of a grunt, and at that sound Reno's face lit up.

"Come on." Grabbing Rude's arm, Reno –who was acting far too much like a child for Rude's comfort- all but dragged his compatriot forward.

Letting himself be pulled along Rude only offered a token protest.

"You've been drinking energy drinks again, haven't you?"

"Shut up and let's go already!"

X

"Ta-dah!"

Posing triumphantly Reno turned to look up at his partner. The large black man was a hard read, as usual. Still, Reno smiled and posed, pleased with how much time he'd saved with his trick. One turn, and half a flight up from where Reno stood, Rude let his frown lines deepen even more.

"And this is your speedy descent plan, your "wondrous" answer to Tseng's speech about never being late again?"

"'Course! And it works like a charm, right Rude?"

Rude snorted and was about to say something cutting when the phone clipped to his pocket rang. The Turk picked up on the second ring, pointedly ignoring Reno's mock pout of indignation. Out of all the tortures the man had been trained to endure he hadn't shaken his childish hate for being ignored. Whilst Rude listened, and winced at whatever he was listening to, Reno amused himself by running a hand through his long red hair.

"Yes sir, we'll be down in five minutes..."

"Taking the main elevator, at three when the morning shift goes home? Pft! Yeah, right."

Having deduced from the "sir" that it was Tseng on the line Reno paid the conversation half an ear. Rude went one to swear on everything holy that they weren't going to be late _this_ time. When the conversation ended, the ending was a long drawn out affair where Rude actually spent five minuets apologizing, Reno couldn't help himself. He started laughing. This was the longest time anyone had heard Rude talk, and Reno would have killed for a video camera of some sort as proof that his partner could run his mouth for so long. Closing the phone with a click, Rude looked down at his partner.

"We need to go. Now."

"First floor? You're gunna take the elevator down?"

Rude only nodded. Amused by his partner's lapse into the wonderful world of monosyllables, Reno smirked.

"Hell no. I'll go down my own way."

Rude didn't waste time arguing. He turned on his heal and left his partner to whatever mad scheme he had in mind. Rude was smart, he'd take the safe way and be at most a minute late. Who knew when Reno would get back from sliding down the rail of the massive stairway?

X

"Late again? Didn't we have a discussion about this a few moments ago?"

Standing still as a statue, radiating a calm serenity, Tseng stood by the glass doors. The older Turk's blue uniform set against colorlessness that reflected the white was a jarring contrast. And by contrast, Tseng lived. Wutain features were framed in Continental stylized clothes. He was a figure of cool power, risen from a caste of no power. Tseng was possessed of a hellishly hot temper that was forever sheathed in the frost of custom and icy politeness. Even as the man lectured his tone was passionless. And his glittering black eyes bored into the shamed Turk with dangerous intensity.

"...Really, I expected a lapse of judgment and laziness from your trainee, not from you Rude. Perhaps I should have your positions reversed?"

There was a thread of dangerous threat in Tseng's mild observation. A flash of light off the edge of a knife. No more blatant than that, but it was enough. A grey tinge touched Rude's skin as the blood drained from his face. Still, Rude held his ground, refused to flinch. Tseng nodded, satisfied for the moment that the threat -and lesson- had struck home.

"Since Reno seems to be the more responsible one you can get the details of the assignment from him. I don't waste time repeating myself to disappointments."

"Yes sir. It won't happen again."

"It better not. Now if you'll excuse me."

Turning on his heel the Turk leader went out the door. For a moment Rude stood there going over what Tseng had said. The Turk turned when he head a familiar chuckle behind him. Leaning against one of the plastic plants that framed a series of unoccupied desks, was Reno. Reno smirked at his partner, flashing startling white teeth that were bracketed by familiar crimson tattoos. The younger Turk's blue uniform was smudged with grey stripes.

"You didn't!"

"Did too, and look who got yelled at!" Braying out a harsh laugh, Reno made his face appear terrified. It was a poor mimic of Rude's face during Tseng's "chat". "Oh no Tseng, don't kill me for being late! I didn't do anything wrong, really, honest!" Dropping the face Reno smirked. "Well least you didn't get to blame me _this_ time around."

"And the fact you caused me to be late those other times means nothing."

"Not by the boss' book. Quite a ride, quite a ride, hard on the ass though." Rubbing at his rear Reno stopped with a grimace. The man's bare hands were now covered with a faint grey fuzz. And that said nothing of the cuff of his sleeves. Those were so grey they looked furry. "So, you're covering our lunch before we go out, right? Because if you don't then I might just "forget" my orders."

"You son of a-"

"Just showing my Shinra stripes, that's all." Reno explained breezily.


	4. Twins, part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Files has a series of shrot novela's within it's spastic one shot segments, this is the first one of these. All chapters titled "Twins" will be in the related to the same story arch and other novelas (mainly Equlibrium) in this piece making call back references.

 

Shinra Stairway

Twins: Part One

A VP's life in a nut shell

The paper was stiff, crisp, white. The words printed upon it were blocky and black, mechanically precise. The doodles marring the parameter of the text (and occasionally overlapping some of the outermost words) were anything but.

"Rufus had a system, and like any other obsessive compulsive denial case, he refused to acknowledge it. Up at six, crisp run down the stairs, elevator back up, then an indulgence, a half hour shower.

The following aside is marked in italics, the note "plese deleate me later" is set as its title: _The shower is a much needed thing after a run down those stairs. Hasn't the kid heard of a treadmill? Rude, what the hell? Get away form my computer! Yes, I'm running the program that transfers my words onto the screen, so what? It beats typing and… what the heck… Rude shut up and go away, you're making the program flip out and write all sorts of crap! Now I have to go and manually delete all this…. I'll do it later, just GO AWAY!_

Anyway, where was I, oh yeah, the shower. After taking a shower Rufus gets dressed in the usual white get up for the day and goes off to breakfast. Dark Nation trailing behind him, the panther hound spends his morning snarling at everything in sight, draped over Rufus' shoed and giving them a black fur fringe. Anyways, while chowing down Rufus worries away on Project A, works on it at the table non-stop until about eight. Around that time Nation picks himself off of Rufus' shoes and pads off to get his leather collar and leash and drops both at Rufus' feet. Doing his usual warm "I love you Nation" dopy grin, the VP collars up the massive black science experiment gone wrong and loops the thick leash in the right place. Thus begins the walk, a tedious fast paced affair where the cat-dog thingie makes Rufus run to keep pace. Lately "the walk" has stopped being so boring and mad dashish, as Nation now seems to like stopping on occasion to sniff at what's interesting, one of those interesting things seeming to be of late are ladies. If I had gill to waste I'd say the cat was deliberately tangling his leash amongst those pretty skirts and skinny legs to get Rufus to pay some attention to the girls. But you gotta admit, the cat still is a cat. The stupid thing happily chases whatever Rufus throws and brings it back and it always wants a firm brushing all the time even if it got one five minutes ago.

Anyways, forgetting the VP's cat… After Rufus spends half the walk running, the other half scolding Nation, and a few moments in between apologizing to the girls Nation seems attracted to, Nation is then banished to Rufus' room. Rude normally "escorts" the VP's cat-dog thing to Rufus' room, as it's found that when I'm er…Reno is assigned to Nation duty the cat shocks said Turk with bold spells.

After the walk and Nation duty thing are done the rest occurs as follows.

Vice Prez goes to gym to work out for one to three hours depending on how pressing business is.

After workout VP than works on project B until cross eyes.

Once royally pissed, VP is escorted to pre planned charity/academia/business/press related even.

A few hours after dodging questions, smiling into cameras, and being social, VP then ditches press via Turk enforcement.

On car ride back to either Shinra INC headquarters the VP work on project B nonstop, with occasionally interludes to swear at Reno for bad driving.

On walk from parking lot to Shinra INC suite (a small building connected to the Shinra trade tower) VP verbally announces to the world that you're promoting project B to project A, that it's VITAL, and at that point the doors of the suit swing open to revel Tseng.

Annoyed boss-man er Tseng… damn this thing is way too good at copying what I'm saying, I'll have Rude do an edit for me later… Anyways, Tseng snags Rufus by collar and drags mildly protesting VP from daytime guards Reno and Rude. Taking this as a hint that they are dismissed Reno and Rude promptly clock out.

And that, is Rufus Shinra's life in a nutshell."

Slowly Tseng looks from the report, to the Turk who had penned it. Pen being of course a metaphoric term, as the software program that had been used to cut corners was clearly declared in an aside. The whole report reeked of cut corners, last minute rushed writing, and incompetence.

But Reno wasn't incompetent, if he had been Tseng would have dealt with the man directly, no Reno wasn't incompetent at all. The nineteen year old was just lazy, laid back, and far too young for his post.

"If you're wondering," Tseng murmured, looking into the man's mako green, "Rude didn't reprint or even edit this before putting it in your folder."

Reno winced and Tseng checked the impulse to grin at the young man's discomfort. He let the young adult stew in his sweat for a while, silently going over the report again, and he let his face settle into a tell nothing frown.

"The style is inappropriate for a business setting; I'll have Rude brief you on the proper forums. Clearly you've never written a report before if this is how you go about it."

The flinch came again, and it had evolved into a wince. Very good then, that was improvement. Setting the paper down Tseng made a steeple of his hands, and set his chin upon the edges of his fingers. Reno shivered, waited for the proverbial blade to drop or the literal bullet to fly.

"By the way…." Tseng paused, enjoying the fear he was invoking. "I appreciate the artistic slant to Mr. Shinra the senior, the horns; they were a nice touch…. Now than, on that note you are dismissed, get out!"

Reno almost upset the chair he ran so fast in his flight from the senor Turk's office. Tseng's amused chuckled followed him out. The sound was rueful; part bitter irony, part calculation, the whole bore Tseng's personal trademark of subtle emphasis.

Alone Tseng smiled and set the amusing text aside. He had a special folder in mind for this report, a place where he set the rare humorous Turk antics on paper. But his smile quickly faded into a frown as he considered the contents of the document in a more sober light.

"You are up to something Rufus Shinra, something you don't trust me with, and in this span of predictability is your first sign. What the Shiva's name do you think you are doing, trying to pull something past me?"

The steeple became twin fists, a mound of intertwined fingers and firm bone that Tseng pressed his chin against. His dark eyes stared into nothing for the longest of time.


	5. Twins: Black Distortion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appologies, I accidentally posted chapter 6 instead of 5. This shold be the correct piece.

 

Stairway:

Twins part two: Ralph

The vice prez was quiet, moody, and internally –or was that eternally?- contemplative and all that. He was also boring as hell, but at least he wasn't chatting them to death about business. A quick shower, change of the clothes, and a stroll to the gym and notta peep. 'Nation seemed indifferent to him, but that might have been the cologne the kid was wearing, strong noise turning stuff, then with traditional abruptness the VP announced it was time. Time for what, might you ask? It was time for another workout, this time at the gym.

"He's like crazy, yo." Reno murmured to Rude. "More so than usual."

"He is acting odd." Rude conceded.

Asking Rude to clarify would merit nothing in the end. So Reno kept his mouth shut, save for the line of grumbles that would continuously pour out. Much like a facet with a drip it was best to ignore it, tone it out, but unlike the facet there was no conventional Reno plumber to call who worked twenty four seven. Rude truly grieved that. Grieved that there was no one in the world to come by and take a wrench to Reno's neck and tighten a few lengths of faulty neck...

Heaving a sigh Rude kept pace with the vice president, a respectful two feet back. It was when Rufus halted, spent a fraction of a second looking around as if reorienting himself that Rude felt something go down his back that was artic. Reno hissed quietly besides him, but besides that both Turk's remained professionally distant.

Then the strange moment passed. Rufus blinked, turned the right way, and kept on going. Reno jerked his head, and Rude nodded, saying he saw and understood. Both Turk's loyally trailed after the VP, but they watched with some interest how a kid, blonde and about the VP's height and build, shuffled down the hall. Mystery blond was wearing a light blue, custodian staff clothes, and was decked out as mundane as you could be. But the groove, the humble jive to the man's step, it wasn't right.

No, it wasn't there, not at all. Too confident, too cocky by half, that's what the man was.

Then he was gone.

X

"Yo, boss man." Reno talked into the cell phone since Rude was busy, and how busy was rude? Real busy, playing Turk to the maybe VP kiddo that Tseng had told them to watch like a hawk.

Rude was busy, and in many ways Reno wished he was that kinda busy. It was safer to be "on the job" than to be reporting not so good news to the boss. Black eyes made onix by his eyeglasses; he grimly watched those around the VP work out. Crisp night blue suit and "I'm gunna kill you all" bearing told everyone around Rufus to grimly stay back. And if Rude's eyes occasionally drifted the red haired petite thing who was working out exercise jerkin that clung in all the right places…

Well that was just a plus side of being a Turk. Kinda like skimming the top when you were an exec. Reno envied Rude sometimes, and this was one of those times.

"We gotta little here problem."

Tseng's voice sounded pissed coming over the line, but then every time Reno called with a "little problem" that problem generally turned into a catastrophe that set the Turk's back a few thousand gill.

"What is going on, where are you?"

"Gym, two levels down from the Turk level. Sir, I really think you aughta come to see this. In person."

Now Reno didn't know Wutia very well, but the thing Tseng said over the line sounded a lot like a curse. There came the sound of deep breaths, then when Tseng next spoke it was in a cool cultured tone with only a faint breath of accent to it.

"How big a SWAT force should I bring? Will SOLDIERS be necessary?"

"None at all sir, but you might wanna come armed."

Tseng said the curse word again and Reno couldn't resist a little stab.

"Ya know, sir, swearing around the kid might get you in trouble with the press and all that. You might wanna chill a bit before commin' in."

Tseng said the word again, added a few things to it, and Reno thought he caught something about "baka's mother" before the boss hung up. Oh well, Reno shrugged, then waved to Rude. The Turk immediately stopped girl- er VP!- watching and met the other Turk's gaze. Reno pointed, first to Rude, than to the soda machine. Flicking his fingers to make an two sign, Reno let his hand drop. The signal was given, his part was done. Rude looked at Reno, considered the coded messege, then went to the soda machine.

He pressed the fifth button down, getting a ruby red soda for himself. Button six was then tappped and a lemonade coolie rumbled out of the machine. Beverage needs handled Rude joined his partner. Any who saw and noted the hand signals would have known Reno hadn't been ordering a drink, no sirree, and any who knew the Turks would have gotten the hell out of there if they'd seen the motions and Rude's actions.

Suits however, were a docile bunch, not noted for common sense. They just ran on the treadmill, lifted wieghts, and overall just continued as they were. The girl who Rude had been watching tossed the tall bald Turk a cute little pout, but she wasn't smart enough to catch the somber turn of her admirer's mood. She just flashed him an inviting glance of parting and went back to her run on the treadmill.

Kicking his feet up, watching the fake VP struggle on the treadmill Reno sipped at his lemonade. The Turk's mako green eyes thinned down to mere slits as he VP watched.

"She's a cutie, I'll give you that partner."

Having earned the right to call Rude his partner as they were now on almost equel ground with Tseng, Rude didn't reprimand him for the familiar turn of address. The somber Turk just took a vacant tanning bench as his own. One shove sent overhanging lamp a swerving to the side, and now no longer encumbered by an awkward over hanging Rude sat on the white bench and sighed.

"Endowed, yes, but not balanced in the slightest."

"You're too picky. She's gotta hell of a rack."

"Reno, my stoamch is in knots, if you'd kindly shut up so my head wouldn't join in?"

Lolling his head back Reno met his partner's gaze, quite a feet considering how those glasses hid everything just right, but Reno managed. He met Rude's eyes and let his lips quirk into a smile.

"Rude, you gotta take these little things in stride. Catch your feet, and all that crap. We're Turks, ya know, flexible and quick and all that jive."

Rude's raised eyebrow said "oh really" louder than any words could of, the man's return somber look was counter enough. It was a thing filled with all that damned serious shit that Reno spent his whole life ditching when he could. Reno met that gaze, still grinning, and lifted his can.

"To like, short lived impostures and all that jazz, yo?"

Saying nothing, as was ever his norm, Rude lifted his can, then they both took a long pull.

X

Short lived wasn't the word. Tseng strod in, clad in death black, his face a pasty hue due to living in Midgar year round and rarely seeing a bit of sun. The imposture lasted one glance, and that's all it took for the head of the secret police (AKA the Turks) to ferret out the fake. The kid who fooled Reno and Rude didn't see his doom coming towards him, the two Turks did and traded congradulatory smirks. Or rather, Reno smirked and Rude looked somber. At the sudden apperience of a clearly annoyed Turk, an armed Turk at that, the once oblivious suits started sharping up. They looked to Tseng, looked to Reno and Rude, and remembered half written reports that were due immediatly. The room cleared out, save for one blonde suit who was reading a magazine in the back corner and one young brown heaired suit who had his eyes scrunched up and was listening to a CD whilest getting a tan. Even the fake VP caught a whif of doom, because he got off the treadmill and watched Tseng's arival with an air of expectant resignation.

"Hello, Mr. vice president." Tseng's eyes were flat, dead, and dangerous. "I've recieved reports you weren't doing well, and I came to personally oversee your well being."

The receptionast, the head of employee wellbeing -a caste so low in the Shinra heirarchy that she didn't even have a voice in anything- had valently tried to stick it out. She'd hidden behind her counter, but at Tseng's dangerous tone and death promising glare clearly prompted her to remember some important buisness on the first floor just then. She ran out at a clip that Reno couldn't help but admire. The blonde looked up at Tseng's arival, nodded her head, and set the magazine aside. As Tseng merrily proceeded to stare the fake VP into the dirt the girl went to the still cheerfully oblivious suit. The man had started singing to himself, something about sun soaked Costa del Sol being the place for him, and suddenly stopped when the girl cooly gave the tanning lamp a shove. It swirved maddly, swung so hard that it did a half circle and came to a stop right behind her. Rude lifted his glasses just then, stared at the girl with his eyes and not a shade to block his view. Reno followed suit, amazed at the kid's gall, until something in that stiff posed light silloete that tipped him off the second after it had tipped off Rude.

"Turk." Rude growled.

"Hot chick who is a Turk." Reno corrected.

"Get your mind out of the gutter." Rude snapped, "we're in serious shit here."

"No." Reno corrected Rude, a little appaled how dense his partner was being today. "He's in serious shit today."

The "he" in question was the fake VP, who was let out a meek whimper and dropped his gaze.

"Sir, I'm sorry but he paid me a damn fortune, my kid's sick and..."

Tseng swelled with rage, his hands clenched into fists, but a quiet scuffle from behind stilled Tseng's tongue. The tanner -tannie?- just had the headphones forciable removed and was trying to give the blond girl a problem. That _problem_ was quickly solved when the girl dragged the suit out of the workout room and threw him out. She thoughtfully closed the door and locked it behind the man, who screamed something inappropriate about the young Turk's mother and stormed off to put her on report.

Tseng, the only boss who matered to any Turk nodded his head. Silently reassuring her that she wasn't in trouble. Matter of fact that fiant grin around his lips told her she might even be getting a promotion or two for whatever she'd just done.

The false Rufus had fallen silent, watched as the girl had thrown out a suit with impunity and was looking at him like he was a punching bag. Turning a few shades paler the fake VP cringed back from the girl's challenging blue eyes.

"Alright, we're alone now, you can start talking." Tseng hissed.

"He paid me off good, to... to... play as him!" The man yalped.

"Clearly I'm not the only one to be lacking in Continental use of... how would Rufus put this? Proper identifiers, within my speach? Ah well, I think you need to speak a little slower, please, you seem jittery, take a seat."

Utterly polite were Tseng's words, the quick punch that he delivered to the fake VP's lower gut was anything but. With a croak the man in white sank to his knees, trembling arms instinctivly slapping down on the steel floor to hold him up. Tseng cocked his head to the side, and somthing in Reno's stomach clenched as the head Turk's eyes cassually drifted to the man's splayed fingers.

_He wouldn't..._

Tseng's booted foot came crashing down, there was a crunch of bone breaking, the man threw his head back and howled his agony. One expert kick to the throat stopped that racket and the man in white lay curled at Tseng's feet, a whimpering ball of agony. Unmoved the Turk merely set his pale hands behind his back, one hand clasped the other, the pose was one of repose. Professional difference, taht was the word, and Tseng practuaclly oozed it. Still hilding to the facade of calm Tseng silently kneeled down over the writhing imposture.

"Are we confortable?" At the man's answering whimper Tseng smiled. It was not a nice smile. The artic thing that went up Rude's back cheerfully leapt from Rude to Reno and made itself at home. "Very good. Now that things are put in persepcitive, let's start again. Who paid you to play at being Rufus?"

"R... Shin..."

"Elena, heal this wretch, it seems as if I accidently applied too much force during sedation."

"Yes sir."

The girl who'd been hovering on the outskirts of the confrontation now came to the fore. She stepped past Reno and Rude and took her place besides Tseng. Hitching up the long baggy sleeve of her work out suit the Turk revieled a small band ringed round by softly glowing stones. Pulling out a pale green gem she held it over the man's head, a green luminesence tricked from the rock, through her fingers, and fell around the man like a odd colored halo.

Once the light disipated Tseng grabed the whimpering man's shirt from and pulled him close. So close that was the Turk and the imposture that thier noses were almost touching.

"One last chance," Tseng purred, shifting his grip so that he could hold the blond's shirt front in one hand. The free hand dipped into a pant pocket and came out holding a thin wooden tube. "You've one chance to tell me everything and tell it to me straight."

"Rufus... he... told me... act like him..." The man croaked.

With a flick of his wrist Tseng shook the wooden tube, and a wicked looking metal spike slid out with a soft hiss at the move.

"I'm sorry, I'm not understanding a word you're saying, Sir. You really must speak up."

Gently Tseng set the spike against the man's cheek, allowing the fave VP to get a good long look at the exotic weapon. At the Turk's unspoken threat the man whimpered, and began to cry. Reno winced, looked away, he'd heard stories abou those spikes. How Wutian torturers broke thier prisoners by slamming them into the feet of their foes and then forcing them to walk with the blades still inside. Reno could easily imagine the cost of every step, and he saw in his mind's eye tenions and muscle ripping from within...

Men had died from pain like that in the war, and the few that lived and were driven mad from the agony.

"Rufus!" It came out as a scream of terror, and Tseng's eyes nerrowed in distatse at the man's volume. "Rufus told me to fake at being the VP for a day!"

Those narrowed eyes went wide in shock and the Turk's hand spasomed. With a thump the fake VP hit the floor, and the second he was free he crawled back, shaking and crying. Clearly the man knew what that needle was for, because his eyes never left it or Tseng. When the young blond's back came in contat with a wall he pressed against it and tucked his knees to his chest, winding his scrawly arms around his legs and rocking back and forth.

Kinda mades a guy wonder what Tseng had done to earn that bad of a rep. But Reno was intellegent enough to know that there were something's you didn't ask a Turk. None of them were saints, but among a legion of bruisers and mercenarys Tseng was considered something of a devil.

"Sir, what do we do with him?" That was the blond chick talking. She looked to Tseng then to the shaken "Rufus" with an amused air. "Do you need to dispose of him?"

_You don't know what that word means little girl, if you're sain' it like that, yo._

"No, Reno, Rude, I'd like you to make an anouncement among the proper circle's that Rufus is indisposed of at the moment. That he is planning to stay in his quarters for the rest of the day."

"Hangover?" Rude asked cooly.

"No, stomach flu. Keep Dark Nation with him for credibility."

"Sir," The girl named Elena stepped forward. Offering Tseng a quick salute before getting to the point. "That will be impossible. Rufus took his dog- er Dark Nation with him on the walk down the stairs."

"He never does that."

"I know sir, but he wasn't dressed like he normally was and was passing the dog off as a sight assistant animal. He was wearing a low level executive's outfit, sir, and his hair was in a different style. I questioned him, and after I reported here as per to your orders I used the Turk archive to see if any of the executives were listed as disabled. The answer came back as none, and I realized that I'd been tricked."

Tseng frowned, his eyes grew distant as he considered this news.

"Yo, if he took the stairs down, he's like still in the building right? "

"Unlikely. He knows that's the first place I'd be liekly to search. He probably went down a few turns then took the elevator."

Rude rose an eyebrow in silent quiery, Tsebng ignored him, was lost in his own little world. While they all waited in uncomfortable silence for Tseng to give orders the oddness of the older Turk's earlier statement hit home with Reno.

_The vice president would go down the fire escape on a regular basis? Why bother? With one word he could order every person in the building out of the elevators, dump them on a random floor with the flick of a switch he could hitch a ride day or night. As for protestors to the practice, that's what the Turk's were for._

"Reno, Rude, take the _vice president_ to his room." Tseng snarled the title, his lips curling in distaste. "Elena, I want details. Then you will go back to headquarters and cancel my meetings for the day. When you're done you can take the rest of the day off if you'd like."

"With all due respect Sir, why not send Reno and Rude to search for the vice president? Three people will be better at searching than just one."

"If he sees us, yo, he'll just go into hiding. He knows were Tseng's favs, and once Rufus sees us he'll hit the highway, maybe even make a break for Junion or something. Like, no 'fense boss man, but if you think that's bad once Rufus gets one look at you, he'll head for the hills to like Wutai or something."

"What are you suggesting, Reno?"

"Cancel your own appointments, yo. Then take it easy in your office, the kid's got 'Nation, he'll be OK."

Tseng took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The Turk's hands clenched, then unclenched, then clenched again. At last, when his anger was under control the Turk turned to his subordinate, his tone soft and leathal.

"And what if he goes into the slums Reno, or even ventures to the middle plate, what then? There are many AVALANGE supporters in the middle plate, as for the lower none of the suits... hell none of the _Turks_ dare go down their because there will be a riot. Rufus has been isolated from the common rabble and you damn well know that! So without even ignorance to be your shield you innocently suggest to let him go on his own." Slanted black eyes thined to slits, one hand dipped into the pocket where the spike had dissappeared to. "I could find those mere suggestions... suspect. Treason to the Shinra has always been death... Treason to the Turks has always been far worse."

Out came the spike, Reno looked to his partner, Rude. If he was expeting some sort of back up he wasn't getting any because the bald Turk was avidly staring at some point beyond them all.

"Um, sir. Reno has a point." Like a shark smelling fresh blood Tseng's head whipped around and stared at Elena. Greatly daring the young Turk took a step forward. The move made Tseng half turn in response, to better reguard her with his death black eyes. "You should cancel your own appointments, then head down to the first floor. I'll meet you there after picking up some more defensive materia and well... we could... go out together and look for him."

"She's... uh Lane's er Elena's gotta a point, sir." Reno dared to open his mouth and instantly cursed himself when Tseng snapped his head around to glare at him. "Rufus would bolt if he saw you, but in a crowd he'd look for someone standin' alone. You, with a girl, not happening. You gotta admit Rufus would look right through you since you've never go out with any girl, 'specially not a Continental chick."

Those eyes thinned into pissed off slits. Clearly Reno had his a nerve, but seeing that he wasn't going to have to watch his partner's execution Rude cleared his throat and save the day.

"We should move out sir so that you can retrieve Rufus immediatly. The vice president's health and well being as always, override or own."

"You have ten minutes." Tseng snapped at Elena.

The Gym's door slammed open at Tseng's shove, then meekly, as if scared of being shot at, slowly and silently swung closed long after the head Turk had left.

"Shit..." Reno whiped his sweat slick head with the cuff of his sleeve. "That was close."

The only sound in the room for a long moment was the fake VP's whimper.

"One of us can cover for you." Rude offered quietly. "You don't know Tseng when he's furious, he's killed rookie Turks before for no reason."

"I can take care of myself, you two should probably get to work with um... what's his name." Elena gestured to the whimpering man in white. "Clean him up too..." She added as an afterthought, she was already heading for the door. "Rufus would never forgive us if anyone thought that he'd cried, ever. You know how he is."

"No." Reno answered her, but in truth he was talking to the door, because the rookie had already sprinted out of the room and was probably on her way to Turk HQ at that moment. "No, I don't know Rufus, or Tseng, not anymore."

From what felt to be a world away Reno watched as Rude knelt at the pale man's side.

"You have a name?"

"Ralph Ushirki." The man whimpered. "My name is Ralph Ushirki..."

"Call me Rude, Mr. Vice President. Now then, you need to get up. Can you walk?"

"I.. I think so... is _he_ coming back agian, with that knife?"

"No sir, but you can't mention that incident, not ever. Just don't even think about it, makes life easier. Here sir, I'll help you get to the bathroom and fetch you a change of clothes. You can clean up while I'm away." Seeing that the fake VP wasn't exactly well on his way to getting back on his feet Rude turned to stare at Reno. "Reno, help him up."

Glumly Reno bowed his head, feeling overall jsut like shit. He'd screwed up, Tseng was gunna kill him, hell Rufus might kill him just for running his gab again.

"Yo, I'm on it Rude. Hold yer chocobos."

The turk's complaint though was mild, wrung out, just like the man himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Stairway

Twins: 

"Two to one"

He despised children, and because of that hatred he could easily had hated Elena and Reno. Despite their chronological ages they were but children, in manner and in speech. As for their mindset, he was fast deducing a hint of infantile about them both.

Crumpling the hated yellow suit with its glossy bronze hued straps, he tossed it in the trash where it belonged. That done Tseng turned to the mirror. He frowned a bit at the imperfection he saw, then with steady hands he pulled his new tie more to the right. _Much better._ Permitting himself a nod in satisfaction was as far as he would go, he would not indulge in a smile, only a nod and a warm feeling of satisfaction. He'd picked a light blue uniform for in his search for a proper man's attire. Baby blue was what the fashion associate had called it before he'd banished her from his side. Why Continental would clad their children in sky colors and think of baby boys and blue at the same time and think them remotely compatible was beyond the Turk. The long pants bore stripes, but these weren't garish blocky things that the youngsters favored. No, not for him, his stripes were in truth subtle little lines, hardly visible to the eye, but they did do much for the garment's texture. The white shirt with it's overlapping unadorned sky blue vest were both bland, but he preferred bland too garish. Most Continental's wouldn't recognize stylish if it bit them. Even Rufus was too flamboyant half the time, decked out in eye searing white, without a touch of grey or black to bring balance to the whole scheme of things.

In short, Rufus would be easy to find. He'd be clad in white, gawking, neck craned up to better see the admittedly impressive underside of the main plate. .. Which was why Tseng was willing to forgo using his car in their search. Not that Elena's arguments that his car; a slick, black, thing that was marred with the occasional bullet hole, would attract too much attention weren't invalid… He just didn't want to appear to fold too easily to a youngster's judgment, to do so would indicate a lack of wisdom in himself.

And as a Turk he could not afford even a moment's weakness, not even the shame of a humiliation.

Remembering that small matter of humiliation Tseng's almost smile and the generally softening that had occurred around his eyes immediately evaporated. He stepped out of the room, a mild scowl touching his features, and Elena who'd been badgering a fashion consultant looked up. Ignoring his expression she took in his clothes than did something unspeakable.

"Dear, what in heaven's name is that get up? You look just like a Turk!"

His control went out the window as the continental were so fond of saying. His eyes went wide in shock, and he only managed a gargled half noise –more squeak than syllable- as Elena took his arm and escorted him back to the dressing room. Once safely out of sight of the civilians Tseng wrenched his arm out of her grasp, and Elena coolly stepped back.

"I'm sorry sir, but they were asking questions and it wouldn't make since for us to come in together if we weren't you know..."

"That was of ill honor for you to do such a thing!" Tseng spat, all but shaking for his rage. "First you humiliate me, than you slander-"

"How is it less honorable than the other things you've had me do?" Elena queered, challenging him without say… a Reno styled helping of heat. "Like that arranged affair that lead to finding out about the leak in the Weapons and Research development? It's just an act, Tseng, lighten up." Running a hand through her blond hair Elena spared a glance down the hall to see if they were alone. "You don't look enough like me to pass as half brother even. You're too old for that role, and even if you weren't that would have meant that Mother had a Wutian in the closet."

"Point." Tseng growled. He reached up with a hand to rub at his throbbing temples. "Although how your mother plays into this is beyond me."

"I was born in this area, on the upper plate." Elena explained. "People around here know me as Elena Woodwright, not as Elena the Turk. Now sir," Elena gently plucked at the older Turk's vest. "Please tell me you don't dress like this on your days off."

"Like what?" Tseng growled.

"Like a Turk."

Silence stretched between them while Tseng shifted through Elena's comments for more of her subtle sarcasms and playfulness. Finding none he decided that he'd be Continental this once. Gritting his teeth Tseng decided to be completely honest and straightforward.

"Normally I dress... in the norms of my heritage would dictate." Tseng grumbled.

"You mean in flowy robes and all that cra- er… stuff?" Elena actually chuckled. "Well, whatever, I'll get you your clothes, you just stay put in your room." She sniggered at the last part, and as she went on her way he could have sword he heard he mutter something about feeling like she had just grounded him.

Opening the door he divested himself of the vest, carefully hanging it on the bent hook left in the wall for that purpose. Pulling off his shoes and tugging off his black socks the Turk wiggled his toes and took a seat in the small seating area provided. But he kept the shirt and pants on for the sake of modesty. Continental women were notorious for being rather rakish… Not knowing anything of natural boundaries or distance they flippantly ignored them and did whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Unpredictable as most of her kind were, Elena could just as easily come in without knocking, or just as slip the clothes under the raised door.

While he hoped for the latter he didn't expect it, and it was best to be prepared.

X

Suit like, but rumpled, decorated to the borderline of garish but not quite crossing that tasteless boundary. Tseng would have centered the tie if he should have, however a certain level of sloppiness was to be permitted to make the guise acceptable. Taking his seat besides his Turk, Tseng watched on with little interest as Elena read a newspaper.

"Money signs, Elena?" He had protested, upon receiving the financially inclined tie.

"Tasteless," the young Turk had conceded, "but it shows humor. Everything's so serious in the upper levels that the middle class tries to be more lighthearted in contrast."

The whole of it was pale blue on grass green. The soft, soothing colors were a deliberate contrast to his normal mode of dress. Even his hair, having proven himself inept in Elena's eyes for any type of styling he'd permitted her to tie it into a raised tail on the back of his head. As for her, in revenge he had gotten a canister of spray on hair color and ordered her to put it in. Petty, yes, and she did look absolutely ridiculous with a silver and pink streak running through her hair, but revenge was often petty. At their mutual consent she'd swapped out the leather mini skirt for something longer and made of more mundane fabric. However, despite his protests, she'd kept the high heels and challenging open front vest.

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not changing into a kom-whatever you call those things to make you feel comfortable. It's what people wear nowadays, dress conservatively and they'll call you a frump."

Letting his fingers twine together Tseng rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head. He tried to figure out where things could have gone wrong. Before this Rufus had never hid anything from him, he had thought that the young man had trusted him. Now with this break in trust he had to take these alien measures to find someone who he should have just been able to call and ask what was going on! Tseng's gut clenched, he was sick of it all and they hadn't even started their search yet!

"Sir," a whispered word, then when he didn't immediately respond an elbow dug into his side. Elena, again, annoying Continental woman, Tseng checked the urge to snarl and merely looked up. "Stop that, people are staring."

He looked around and realized he was getting pitying glances. Grimacing, Tseng studied the pose of those around him, and gingerly picked a pose that didn't seem too unnatural when compared to those around him. He crossed his arms over his chest, swung one leg over the other, and let his eyes half close. After that, there came no more pokes from his… partner on this mission.

Toying with the cheery thought of a demotion for Elena, Tseng leaned against the filthy side of the bus and craned his neck to see what Elena was reading. Small colored boxes with various characters Continental's thought of as comic met his gaze. Hence the heading of the page, "comics".

"Elena, don't tell me you've been reading the comics instead of doing something useful?" Tseng whispered.

Someone giggled from a seat behind them. Idly he wondered if perhaps this pose was scandalous. How the leaning forward to murmur in someone's ear could be seen as… as erotic when the clothes of the women around him were more challenging by far!

And they thought the people of his culture were insane!

Lazily he set his hand around her shoulders, pulled her close. Unlike a true gesture of closeness he allowed his fingers to fall upon around the pulse point of her throat. Elena understood the unspoken threat, and went very still. Another snigger sounded behind them, and Tseng smiled coldly into the hollow of Elena's neck.

"You have less than twenty seconds to tell me why I shouldn't kill you, starting right now."

"I found him."

"Really? Why don't I believe you?" Tseng mockingly caressed the line her jugular made up her throat. If he put enough pressure on any point he could kill her instantaneously. She knew that; as did he, but the people around them saw a well dressed couple playfully flirting.

Elena merely flipped the paper's page and merely by riveting her gaze one a segment she had prompted Tseng to follow her gaze. Tseng's smile became a confused frown as he considered the passage.

"Elena, you are kidding, are you not? A fair? Rufus?"

"If I was his age, and I'd never been able to do anything I ever really wanted to and an opportunity came up to do it, just once, I'd do it. Wouldn't you?"

Setting his head on her shoulder Tseng read the passage again, then at last conceded this much.

"I did."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, you wouldn't understand. Just _play along_ as you so kindly put it before." Tseng set his lips to her throat, thoughtfully removing his hand. His mock kiss done he pulled away a little. "How long until we get there?"

"Five stops. That's about half an hour on this route."

"Good, because if I pretend to be any more Continental they'll start thinking I'm Reeve back at headquarters."

Elena flinched as some unsavory thought occurred to her. "Tseng."

_Not sir, I'll have to write her up for that when we're done, she's slipping._

"Hmm…"

"Could you… let go a little?"

"You're a Turk, work something out." Tseng growled

She squirmed in his token embrace, and he smirked at her. He tightened his hold enough to tell her that the answer was no. Her discomfort would be a suitable trade off for his earlier humiliation at her hands. Fishing around his mind for suitable cover chat –"small talk" he'd heard other Turk's call it, but considered how damning not being able to make that type of chatter was, Tseng would not degrade it by calling it small- Tseng came upon the perfect opening and he even indulged in a wicked chuckle to preclude it.

"So, _dear_ , how was work today?"

The bus hissed to a stop, the door at the front opened, and a small scale collision occurred as some people went off, some people came on, and others just moved around a bit. He noted them, memorized their features, absorbed their manner, and dismissed the lot of them as non-threatening in a glance. The small pause in Elena's reply told him that she'd taken a moment to do much the same. But then, they were Turk's after all, it was to be expected…

"It was, _interesting_ … By the way, you remember that girl at the clothing store, the one with the pig tails?"

"No, but then you were too busy scandalizing my finer sensibilities at the time for me to notice anything."

Was that a faint smile on her lips? She was facing the wrong way for him to be sure, and he didn't quite feel like fake kissing the girl again just to see if she was. Ah well, he felt his ears all but prick at the promised hint of a lead but held fast to his Wutian reserve.

"Well, she said that a certain blond comes in every now and than and picks the oddest clothes for himself. Street clothes, dress clothes, none of them are ever white. I told her I thought white was such a dashing color, and she agreed, but the boy said that he looked too much like the son of Alexander Shinra for his comfort. He didn't want paparazzi cashing after him in a case of mistaken identity."

"Really?" Tseng's hand clenched, as if he were grabbing the vital information. "Isn't that interesting?"

"I thought it was too."

This time Elena chuckled, and snuggled against him. He stiffened at the unwanted contact. While draping an arm over her shoulders had been his ploy to make her uncomfortable she had taken it up a step and was practically using him as a pillow! Before he could say anything to reprimand her, a staticy hiss cut through the air above them.

"Excuse, sir and mam on seat L six left side, if you could please tone the snuggly-pooh down to a civil level immediately. If you don't comply I'll be forced to pull over and drop you off."

Turning scarlet Tseng pushed Elena away from him. The young Turk only laughed and scooted up a few seats so they weren't so close. Around them passengers laughed, as did the bus driver. With a click the static stopped, and at least one of his detractors was blessedly silent.

Yet under his sense of keen embarrassment was a glimmer of amusement. He'd asked for it after all, he'd challenged Elena to get away and she had. If the methods weren't conventional, or even modest, he was forced to admit that they had worked.

Which brought the score to what now? Two to one? Leaning into the welcoming curve of the bus' chair Tseng crossed his arms over his chest and considered Elena with his slanted eyes. Yes, she had had two wins, for the moment.

Only for the moment.


	7. Twins, Innocent smile

Stairway

Twins: Innocent smile…

 

"Is something wrong, Rufus?"

Each step in the dark was thunderous. While soundless in the outside world the concrete caught each motion and magnified it until it roared up and down the stairway, utterly distorted, completely alien. Holding to his silence, Rufus continued to look down. Yellow light winked at every turn, between those lights, coating the steps as surely as dust, were tame little patches of gloom. Bracketed in dull illumination was a path utterly predictable in it's angular inclination, and its incline as well. He stood, half in dark, half in light, on the edge of both, lost in thought.

"Rufus-sama, something is troubling you. And I will hear of it. Would it not be best to tell me now rather than have me have to buy… say a tabloid… and hear of it that way?"

Unlike the scuff of boot on stone, whispers crept into the shadows and became smothered. A whisper wouldn't carry, but the clomp of feet always did. One of the reasons he liked the place, he supposed. Not turning from his scrutiny of nothing at all, Rufus addressed the man approaching.

"Don't you normally start a conversation with "hi", or "hello", Tseng?"

"I am hardly normal." The Turk countered.

"It wasn't criticism, just a comment." Rufus assured. Looking up he watched Tseng descend. Once upon a time when Rufus had wanted everything normal and just right he'd been given a Turk. Father had finally folded to Mother's insistent complaining and on Rufus' ninth birthday Tseng had been formally introduced to Rufus. He recalled that day though ten years separated him from it. His mother's laughter at her little darling's formality and Tseng's coolly offered handshake that was surprisingly warm. Little did his parent suspect that under the formality winks had been exchanged. Turk knew child, and child knew Turk, and though they'd never been formally introduced to one another Rufus remembered Tseng as the slant eyed man who had guarded his play.

"You're immaculate, as always." Rufus teased, a half smile touching his lips.

"And you brood, which is becoming something of a habit for you of late. A bad one."

"Criticism, Tseng."

"Between such as us, it is allowed."

Once upon a time Rufus had wanted his world to be glossy and bright. He had wanted a mirror without flaws, so that it could show him and him alone. Slanted eyes, the subtle accent, thus had been marked the stone that had been cast upon the reflection. Unlike hard glass the surface of Rufus' world had flexed, distorted, and it was only by seeing himself cast in a myriad maze of ripples that he had understood. There was a depth to every image, a level untapped, and in seeing that the glistening, shiny, surface, had lost all appeal.

Rufus closed his eyes and leaned against the rusty rail. With a shake of his head to banish his musing the Shinra heir leaned against black oblivion, a wry smile gracing his lips.

"To answer your fist question, I'd have to say everything."

"Truly?" There was something odd to the Turk's tone, but Rufus shrugged it off, enjoying the deluded rush given to him by a cheap thrill. He should have listened though, for Tseng's voice was tinged with an edge of disappointment. "Truly, you feel that there will be no roof over your head on the 'morrow?"

Surprised by the question Rufus' eyes flared open.

"What... what did you just-"

"Do you fear, you will be homeless tomorrow?" Tseng pressed.

Surprised, the young Vice President opened his mouth and uttered a very lame soundings "no", in reply.

"And you're next meal, certainly you have means to cover it? If not the finances than certainly you won't suddenly lack those who would willingly…. If not eagerly… see to your well being if ever you lacked?"

Guilt than nibbled on Rufus, it was a rare emotion for him, and he cringed at its caress. "Well, I guess n-"

"The uniform you favor, it seems of sturdy material." Having completed his descent Tseng stood besides Rufus. Gently the Turk set his hand upon the young Shinra's shoulder. "Not prone to falling apart, or rot, nor is it in obvious disrepair… though it is rather monochromatic…"

"Excuse me for not acquiring your Wutian love of garish colors." Rufus snapped, finally seeing and loathing the all too familiar "you're better off than everyone else, get over it speech" that was being delivered.

"Criticism, Rufus?"

Biting his lip, he hadn't meant to sap at Tseng, the young man turned from the Turk and stared moodily into the dark heart that was the stairway's shaft.

"No… just crabbiness I guess. It's the same old shit that's eating at me, and I can't do a damn thing. The old man, the company, media, school, and don't you even dare say I'll get used to it in time, or I'm stressed, or anything like that! I don't want to hear it!"

Tseng was silent, then wordlessly he jointed Rufus on leaning against the rail. Taking a spot to Rufus' right, the Turk slowly tiled his head up. Feeling his curiosity peek, Rufus followed suit, and saw nothing more than a winding concrete arch, dotted with little smears of light that went up and up beyond all sight.

"Autumn rest is about a week away, correct?"

"Fall break, yeah?"

"And it is your last year in school, yes?"

Even that revelation did little to cheer the Shinra heir up, though it should have… "Hummph, yeah it is, _if_ I pass Lit."

"You'll pass." Tseng's tone was vaguely sharp, and though the words were encouraging the tone of voice made it an order. Rufus bit on his lip to keep from laughing at that thought. "As I understand it," the Turk continued, "the last year of school is the hardest."

"AP is hard every year."

"Will you than forgive me, if I offer you a rough exam?"

That was new. It wasn't that Tseng hadn't offered to help Rufus in the past, but once Rufus had graduated out of the lower and middle levels of education Tseng had been helpless to aide the struggling heir.

"Shoot." Rufus said with a weary sigh.

Clicking his teeth together, as if biting back a reprimand, Tseng fell into a thoughtful silence for a time. The Turk allowed the rail to take his full weight; his black eyes went distant as he joined Rufus in staring into the dark.

"In an ideal business setting, what it the purpose of a vice president?"

"To serve as a counterbalance to the short sightedness of the one man system. He also serves as a link to the lower level employees to the top."

"Since it is presumed that a vice president is hard working, isn't he than granted similar luxuries as a president?"

"Company policies differ." Rufus answered automatically, than his eyes narrowed as an amusing thought hit home. "Why, Tseng, are you leading me somewhere with all of this?"

"It is not your place to question a teacher." The Turk snapped automatically. Rufus blinked a bit at that, surprised at Tseng's harsh tone. After a long silence Tseng cleared his throat, clearly meaning to apologize.

Rufus beat him to it.

"You're right; in Wutai you can't question a teacher. It's dishonorable. I forgot, and I apologize."

Sounding a bit hoarse, the Turk continued, neither dismissing or accepting the apology. "What under-minds a monopoly the quickest?"

"Uni… Unions…"

Blue eyes narrowed though this time as he thought a wicked smile touched his lips.

"Tseng, are you sure you don't want a promotion? I could probably give you Heidagger's job if you wanted it."

Tseng's grimace of distaste made Rufus laugh, and after a while even Tseng cracked a smile and admitted that his dread always looked comical. Still chuckling, the vice president of Shinra mounted the stairway.

"Wherever are you going, Rufus?" Tseng asked innocently.

"To talk to the old bastard on the top floor. Something tells me he's been abusing the lower levels too much, I figure someone's got to put him in his place."

Tseng's sharp edged laughter followed Rufus up for many turns after.

X

"Like, really, like five weeks off!"

Forgetting protocol his secretary actually hugged him. Rufus didn't mind the embrace, really it wasn't half bad, but Rude did. The bald Turk cleared his throat, only that, but Kelsie let go of her employer and hopped back a bit for good measure.

Still, distance didn't stop the brunette from gushing.

"Like Oh M Gee, you are like the most awesome suit, executive, vice prez ever Rufus! A whole month off! Sweet!"

Clearly someone text messaged far too much to be sane... Rude fussed with his tie, and Rufus fought to keep a straight face as they both were showered with odd acronyms for a while. At last, when the girl paused for breath Rufus dared to get one word in. Much to his surprise he was permitted a sentence.

"So… ummm any plans? For your vacation I mean."

"Like, totally! Tons even! Maybe a trip to Costa, and Nebilem supposed to be really cool even if it's quaint and all that. Oh, defiantly a trip to the big GS for sure, employee discounts, ya know?"

She went on and on, providing details Rufus could only half understand. So wrapped up in the inner glow of her plans and enjoyments she never bothered to ask him for his.

Which turned out to be a good thing, since he didn't have one.

X

Taking a breather from the company didn't exactly entail a breather from school. The sadistic Lit teacher had demanded one essay a week, five paragraphs, double spaced, on whatever book the class was reading at the moment. Then, just as Rufus had began to get comfortable in the first days of his vacation the man had turned around and doubled the requirements. Two essays, ten paragraphs, and after getting the first one batch back Rufus had began to suspect something untoward was going on. A comparison between the first and last essay confirmed his suspicions, but really, what could he do about it? He was still legally a minor, with no real voice, and his father wouldn't back him for anything.

Still, Tseng's query as to if everything was alright rang in his ears. Finally, after some thought Rufus picked up his cell and dropped Tseng a line.

An hour later the Turk came in, a disgruntled Reno trailing behind. Raising his head from the book he was pouring over Rufus pointed with one hand to the pile of papers.

"Like, what about havin' yer secretary look over this, yo?" Reno protested. But under Tseng's stern glare he took a seat and one of the packets of papers for perusal.

"She's on vacation." Tseng growled. "And she's a high school drop out on top of that. Hardly a suitably combination for editing."

"We're Turks, yo! We shoot people, how's that make us qualified for anything?"

Ignoring Reno's whining Tseng took a packet, the same paper Rufus had sent aside for him. Clearly the Wutian Turk was trying to work his mind around the Continental education system. Points were only valid for testing, and Wutian children were tested to the extreme, their curriculum was that of self pace and progress was centered around their tests. And the tests in turn picked their life courses for them. For how they fared indicated on what they were to learn, and they would be tested again and again throughout their lives until they tested out of school and into a pre-determined occupation.

"So, this is worth a large number of points, I assume?" Tseng hazarded. "Hence, why you asked for our help?"

Rufus only smirked and threw a red pen at him. Tseng gracefully caught the projectile and a raised eyebrow. The silent gesture was a rebuke and a warning that Rufus was never to throw things at him again. "Just edit it, alright? You're going to learn something Tseng, how we Continental teach our kids."

"Like, this ain't half bad." Reno admitted, scanning his paper with mako green eyes. "Kinda dusty though…"

"Reno, you need a pen to edit!" Tseng barked.

"No way! You edit after first read through, didn't them graybeard slant eyes ever teach you to absorb the story first, an' fix  
later?"

Tseng's only response to that question was an ominous growl. Reno, nose in the proverbial book, was oblivious to the world. Waving a hand to tell Tseng to let it go Rufus went back to reading, and the only sound for a time was the scritch scratch of a pen going over the paper. After a while even the pen stopped, as Tseng got into the reading and forgot he was supposed to be editing.

A half hour later both Turk's finished reading and editing, Rufus ordered them to turn it in. A quick glance told him what he suspected, beyond a quick note on passivity put in Reno's handwriting and a minor complaint about the spelling of grey as "ay" in Tseng's both papers were clean.

Satisfied Rufus then pulled out the copy he'd just got in a day before and handed it to the Turks'.

"Sheeeit…" Reno hissed. "Does the guy love red or what? What the hell? Too many active verbs, pre-determined tab setting is too short… this is pure crap!"

Tseng than snatched the paper from Reno and went over it. After a moment's perusal he frowned.

"Clearly your Lit teacher is a sadistic bastard." Tseng said, setting the papers down. "For a stylistic error he marks down thirty points, for your perceived misspelling he takes down twenty… how many points were permitted for this paper?"

"Oh, about a hundred."

Reno's mouth sagged open in shock. The nuisances of a fifty percent hit home faster to the man who'd seen them in action when he was little. "You're telling me this hard ass failed you and put in all this fake crap to throw you off… and he's a Lit. professor?"

"Failed!" Tseng snarled, finally catching on at last.

Looking to Tseng, considering his bosses sudden flash of anger, Reno smirked in understanding.

"Hey, how's employee sick leave handled at that school of yours, Rufie? Pretty good?"

"If… someone were to get ill or hurt they're covered for half a school year or so. At least that's what I've heard, I could be wrong." Rufus shrugged.

"Yo, boss, just a thought, but how flexible it that whole "anti-Shinra activity" law? Like, could maliciously failin' a Shinra count as such?"

Tseng's black eyes became thoughtful slits, his lips pressed together in a thin line. After thinking it over Tseng nodded, more to himself than to Reno's question.

"Rufus, did that man's opening synopsis include a phone number or email address?" Wordlessly Rufus fished out the synopsis and handed it over to the head of secret police. Tseng went over the vital information, than making an odd clucking noise in the back of his throat the Turk shook his head. "Such a fool… An arrogant fool… Well then," shaking off his mood with a sharp shake of his head Tseng handed the page back to the Shinra heir. "You should best get to working on that new paper of yours, Rufus. I expect Reno and I shall be out of touch for a short while…"

X

The time off, was doing some good. After the second week he'd smoothed out almost every problem he hadn't had time to work on, the low priorities were cleared away. Classes, which were something of a boring formality, were made rather amusing due to the fact that the hated Lit professor now sported a broken arm and was having great difficulties sitting and standing.

"Reno's idea." Tseng had confided. "Grotesque, yes, but I believe after the man finally stopped screaming he got the point. Reno was… very thorough... You should have no other problems after our talk with the man. He'll know what will happen if we have to come by again."

As to what the idea was Tseng would say nothing. The Turk merely frowned sternly and told Rufus it was confidential. He certainly wasn't going to start teaching Turk torturing techniques to civilians. Such information that would cause a break down in the system…

So Rufus didn't press, though Tseng wore a self congratulatory smirk for days after.

His vacation had been a slow but productive time. By the third week he'd fixed his computer, dislodged all its virus', reorganized his filing system, caught up on his leisure correspondences, and at the tail end of week three had come into view boredom had reared it's head.

Graced with the cockiness of late adolescence Rufus readily admitted that he had few weapons to combat this foe, but he took the beast on confidently. And it was only when Nation absolutely refused to be collared for yet _another_ walk and when Tseng curtly told him he was busy, that Rufus realized he was driving everyone around him slowly but surely insane. So, he fell back on an old past time, he read for leisure during the day, and when the new assigned Turk (Rude was ill and Reno had decided to take a vacation of his own) was sound asleep outside his apartments Rufus unpacked his video game system and played until he fell asleep over his controller.

Rediscovering his old RPGs and Puzzle games for the first time in years was something of a secret joy. His gamming was a private indulgence and he would have positively died if word had gotten back to anyone about it. Still, he covered his tracks despite going overboard. Spending a few moments to carefully repack the system after each use, keeping the volume to a whisper, and moving Dark Nation's blankets so the panther-hound would sleep in front of the door and serve as a sentry. Or at least Rufus had _thought_ he had covered all his tracks. He'd forgotten about red lines, the red lines you got when leaning forward almost nose to nose with the TV, the watery edge that his blue eyes acquired when he rarely blinked. One morning after a rather long gamming session, whilst getting ready for school, he'd been non-pulsed to see the brunette rookie Turk talking to a very worried looking Tseng.

"Rufus…" Tseng's black eyes reflected only one emotion, and that was deep concern. The Turk actually frowned, seeing the thick black sun glasses Rufus had set over his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," making a show of checking his wrist-watch Rufus glanced up at Tseng. "I'm sorry, I gotta run. I'm running late! Talk to you later!"

Rufus darted out the door, past Tseng, and with a jerk of his head the Turk mutely ordered the new guard to follow.

The last sight Rufus had had of Tseng that day was the Turk all alone in his living room. A worried figure cast in navy blue surrounded by stark artic white.

X

On the last week, when the restlessness and boredom had reached a point that even 'Nation was looking worried, Rufus found his answer. While walking the familiar winding stairway he met himself…

Or rather, Rufus met Ralph.

A dry mop slung over his shoulder, Ralph was surprised to see the vice President of Shinra inc, _down here_. But once Rufus got over his shock and Ralph over his they'd spent a long time marveling at how alike they looked. Take away Ralph's small paunch and smooth back the hair a bit and even a Turk would have been hard pressed to tell them apart. Soon Rufus had rearranged his schedule a bit, forgoing two showers in the morning, and merely taking one after his run down the stair. That was enough of a time slot to get down the stairs and meet up with Ralph more often than not. Since no Turk save Tseng knew why (or even how regularly) Rufus took his frustrations to the stairs Rufus was for the shortest of times alone. And alone, he realized, he was allowed to say whatever he wanted to a surprisingly sympathetic ear.

On one of their meetings Ralph gripped about his job, and while Rufus found the mans predictable complaints unspeakably boring he relished the freedom from watchful eyes so much he'd almost endure anything. So Rufus endured Ralphs grumbles and even made a few half hearted promises to "try" to do something about such and such…

Normally when Ralph talk Rufus only partially listened, but one line out of the barrage caught his wandering attention and riveted it on the man.

"Just once, once I tell you, I'd like a damn desk job! Always wanted a desk job, see, but you gotta have an education for those sorta things. No Exec would look at me twice, save to say how much I look like you of course…"

Rufus came to a stop, as surely and suddenly as if he'd been frozen to the earth by a mastered ice materia. Ralph, catching the Vice President's mood, stopped. But unlike the toddies that Rufus used the Turk's to keep an arms distance away he didn't faun or grovel, trying to remedy some perceived wrong. He just waited while Rufus worked out whatever thought he had.

At last, a strange abstract smile on his face, Rufus began to move again. He even draped a companionable arm over his look a like's shoulders.

"Tell you what, Ralph, how would you like a promotion? I can think of one job, one a few notches up that you'd be perfect for. It's perfectly compatible with your custodian job, and you won't need but a few pointers to serve as training."

"What is it?" Ralph asked eagerly, not seeing the wicked glint to Rufus' eyes. When the Shinra let his offer fell Ralph's mouth sagged open 'til it almost hit the floor. He nodded eagerly happily taking it up, not even asking _one_ question. At the man's implacable trust, Rufus chuckled.

And had Tseng heard that laugh the Turk would have put Rufus in lock down or some other drastic measure, because Rufus' laugh was that of a young man who saw his freedom and would eagerly grasp it. And to hell with the consequences.

"Well than, Mr. Vice President," Rufus said with an evil smirk, "give me a few days to throw some plots together, and we'll talk about this more later. But you can't tell anyone, not a soul!"

"No sir, not me sir, I'm not one to talk about anything!"

Rufus gave himself a week than. Because, despite what he said, Ralph did like to talk. He was so pathetically eager to chat that Rufus allowed him to, scared that to deprive the man of anything –even a little attention- would be the same as scaring him off. Still, seven days would be plenty of time to throw something together. Off from both work and school he'd have more than enough time to get away, just once.

Ignorantly he thought that once would be enough. Knowing nothing of the outside world he knew little of how much he had to learn to do the simplest of things and that interacting with others and the world around them was a lifetime's work. That in truth, life itself could sometimes take a hellish effort just to navigate, since it changed so fast.

So Rufus made his plans to enter something that was part madhouse, part delusion. His ideas of the world were constructed of illusions, and he'd begin to bring them all down with a smile on his lips. That smile told of more innocence than he would have wanted to lay claim to.

 


	8. Twins: Helpless

Stairway

Twins: Helpless

 

The rocking and swaying of the bus brought forth a myriad morass of memory. Perhaps it stroked some infantile echo, a ghostly reminisce of a time when he had been a child rocked in his mother's arms. Certainly a shrink would think so…

Save there had been no such time like that for him. Born of force, of a Continental SOLDIER showing his superiority to a savage Wutian woman, the natural affection between mother and child had been abandoned due to cruel circumstance. Of she held him, and she had fed him, but beyond that the shame of his conception congealed into his very core. He was tainted due to circumstances that he had no control over, and every time their eyes had met that had hung over them, unspoken.

But always felt, always, always felt…

They hadn't been exiled, but the shame had been too much for her. She'd gone one step lower than exile and had fled no only her father's home, but her people's world. He'd been cut from his homeland by his mother's decision, and good riddance to the lot of them. Though he cherished their customs and half of his blood, yet he had no love of his people. An odd contradiction on the surface, at least until one realized that his people had broken away from their own customs. The few they still held to were distorted until what should have served as strength now smothered.

And they'd had no need for him. He had been forced to come to Midgar, but he had found those who needed him. That was enough, more than enough. Having seen the drear world of poverty his mother refused to rise above Tseng had made the cold blooded decision to break away from it. He looked for power, if not wealth, and he'd found both with the Turks.

_Lucky, I was damned lucky Veld took interest when Heidegger did not. Once the war was over there wasn't need for a half bastard Wutian anymore._

_Heidegger, once after sucking the young Tseng dry of all information on Wutia had tossed the useless adolescent aside. He gave Tseng mission after mission that he was ill equipped to handle._

_A untrained Turk is the worst kind, but the fact I kept making it back alive covered in my own blood if not glory was enough to get Veld's attention._

_He'd heard stories of Veld. The cold blooded, he was called, the devil's right hand… He'd been rightly terrified when the man had sent him a message that he wanted to talk. And that Tseng was to meet Veld in the Shinra executive parking lot._

" _In boy."_

_Meekly Tseng had slipped into the man's car, fearing with all his heart that he was only being driven to a place where his "demotion" would cause less of a stir. The slums maybe. Ironic that, all his life he'd been running from poverty, only to find his corpse left among those he hated the most. Vled drove the tank-esk vehicle in silence, and the silence once tense lost its proverbial edge. Tseng's fear faded into resignation, if he was to die in the slums, so be it. The swaying motion of the vehicle and silence though were soothing after a while, he yawned, dared enough to roll his shoulders though not to stretch._

" _You're a half blood, than? War's over, don't know what Heidegger was thinking taking you in."_

_Letting his eyes half close Tseng watched Veld's posture and pose though the corner of his eyes, he leaned against the door of the car though, pretended he wasn't doing so._

" _What of it?"_

" _You're cannon fodder, boy, that's all you'll ever be to Heidegger, you know that. You're too young for this bloody business, what, only fifteen?"_

" _Eighteen." Tseng had growled._

" _Don't lie to me, boy."_

"Ts- er… Sir. We're here." Elena gently prodded him with an elbow.

Tseng nodded, rubbed his side where she'd prodded him before as he stood. What was her fascination with nudging him right under the ribs? The motion was probably some Continental custom to guarantee annoyance. If it was he could safely vouchsafe its effectiveness. To say the least it was working damn well on him, he was thoroughly annoyed with the woman. He stood, as did the bulk of the remaining passengers, and joined the shuffling majority in the press for the bus' sole door. Elena followed him, one rude shove from someone behind her made her plow into his back. He whipped around at that, silently bared his teeth in a snarl. The gesture wasn't meant for her, though she cowered under his hostility as if it was, no it was meant for her attacker.

Elena was annoying, yes, but first and foremost she was a Turk. Though Heidegger had long forgotten the Turks' loyalty he hadn't forsaken it. To a Turk, there were only Turks, the rest of the world could go to hell for all he cared. Because when you came right down to it the only thing a Turk called his or her own was their mutual brotherhood. Elena's assailant flipped him the bird, and Tseng spent a half second coolly memorizing the bastard's features before submitting to the tide of humanity.

He'd hope for an opportunity to doll out vengeance later, but until that moment came it would be best served to go forward, which is what he did. Elena hovered a mere breath's width behind him. The young Turk's near omnipresent hovering over his shoulder was setting his nerves to jangling.

"God, I hope we get off soon," she growled, unwittingly uttering his innermost secret desire of the moment, "or I swear I'm going to use my gun to bloody well clear a path."

"Shut up and walk." Tseng snapped, not bothering to turn around. Though truth be told the press of people and seats would have made that quite the feat.

"I _am_." Elena snapped. "I can't walk faster than you're going."

Eventually they made it to the door. The stark blue sky streaked with familiar grey clouds was a bit of an ocular shock. He descended the three stairs leading from the bus, blinking all the while.

_He'd been blinded before, when Veld had pulled over right in the center of a city street light. Tseng's budding Turk instinct all but howled that there was danger in leaving, and he remained seated though the door was wide open. He stared, out into the blocky smear of light, the details of the street lost due to the harsh luminescence._

" _Get out." Veld snapped._

" _No."_

" _Young and insolent? You're nothing, to me, to Heidegger, so this is where you get off. If you have sense you'll quietly just slip out of the car, I'll drive away, and neither one of us will look back."_

" _Go to hell... sir." He added the last, unable to help himself. Overtraining he supposed._

" _Go to hell, sir?" Veld had laughed a dog's laugh. The sound was sharp, harsh, and abrupt. "That's what you gotta say to me? Prim and proper telling me to go to hell, even as you're thinking I should fuck myself and a few other things, huh? Listen to me, kid. You've got a life outside of the Turks, or if you don't you're young enough to make one…"_

" _As a half bred, am I permitted a life? I never was before." Tseng snapped, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't have a family; the Turks are all I have."_

_Silence followed. A quiet, thoughtful, span. He was being judged, the cut of his profile, the slant of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the words, everything he was at that moment was set up against a harsh template. A nod then, Veld permitted himself a silent nod of approval._

" _Close the door than, Rookie, close it and I'll drive, and we'll find out what you're made of." When Tseng's hand curled around the door handle, Veld spoke once more. "You do know, that once you're in, the only way you leave is feet first."_

_Without a word Tseng slammed the door shut, and to that Veld laughed._

"Damn, we're going to have our hand's full… Is all of Midgar here?"

"Just half of the upper plate's adolescent population, most of its children population, and the various bored, lonesome, and plain lunatic who favor bright sunny days." Tseng countered.

Ignoring Elena's return stab, about him making a joke and the world ending as a result, the older Turk took a deep breath. He tasted various foods on the air. Childish foods at that, hot dogs, popcorn, and the scent of fudge were all but overpowering. Add to that the taint of body odor, and fog among the mess and it was a _wonderful_ combination. But, he admitted as he followed Elena into the press that was slowly striving to a massive ribbon encrusted overhanging, things could be worse. Rufus could have been a fool and gone down into the slums rather than this gaudy, tawdry, carnival.

As a boon to his additional height Tseng saw the gaudy yellow sign before Elena did, he read it and almost prayed that Elena was wrong, that Rufus wouldn't be drawn to this place. The air of cheer –it was deepening, like a poisonous fog, and in the mere presence of such unrestrained cheer and good will Tseng began to feel ill- though would be a magnet for Rufus who had lived out his life in a world cast in drear somberness. A chill of dread slid down his back as he caught sight of the familiar sway of yellow feathers in the crowd ahead. Sensing the turn of her boss' mood, Elena craned his neck up to look at him.

"Elena… you are more versed in Continental celebrations than I, but… what purpose is there to a Chocobo umm Rodeo?"

"What?" Then the press of the crowd drew them past the point of no return. She saw the sign, and she froze.

For under that sign was a man, long rimmed hat made of leather, one lone feather cresting its ridged top. Black long boots that ended in a point and had a heel anointed with spurs was sitting upon the saddle of a rather board yellow entity.

"Howdy mam, sir, ye to take yerselves over to yon counter and pay up, yessirie, than you can go under the arch and enter."

Baffled by the odd dialect Tseng looked to the man on the chocobo, than to Elena, who was trying her best not to laugh.

Taking his hand in her own, the young Turk smiled brightly at the man upon the chocobo.

"Thankyee sir, we'll just mosey over an' do that, yer ever so kind."

"An honor mam." He doffed off his hat cap hybrid and managed a bow while in the saddle. Spying someone about ready to breach the premises without paying the chocobo rider kneed his mount and wove through the crowd to stop a small group of minors. "Now hold yer chocobos youngin's ya gotta-"

"Come on!" Elena pulled on his arm, and feeling as helpless as the day he'd stared out into that streetlight Tseng followed the younger Turk's lead. When they were safely out of earshot and on their way to the counter she drew close, but only to whisper unbelievingly into his ear. "You've never been to a Rodeo before?"

"You've never been to a _Suipieki_ before?" Tseng countered coolly.

"A _what_?"

"Coming of age ceremony, common to Wutia, certainly you've heard of it before?" At Elena's mute shake of her head Tseng smirked. "No? Well than, you've no right to criticize. One man can't learn everything about everyone and know every secret about different cultures. Especially not an outsider; who is damned to stand aloof and look in eternally."

Shaking her head, not really understanding Elena did what a Turk should do. She focused on the most logical part of the problem and dealt with that

"Let's just get some tickets."

For once they were in complete agreement.


	9. Flushing out the prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. I got caught up on a few other projects. I'm back with a few more chapters for you guys, thanks for waiting so patiently.

Stairway:

Twins: Cat and Mouse prt1

Flushing out the prey

"I like this as much as you," Elena confided, "but-"

"-Keep up the act." He concluded coldly,

So they walked down the sand covered parking lot. Close enough they almost touched, occasionally even degrading their own honor to walk hand in hand. The raw amount of physical contact needed for this façade was draining him, and if the rumors he'd heard about Elena were true he whole heartedly sympathized with her first mission. She had been forced to play mistress, weave her way into a well established marriage, seduce the husband, and slip out. Granted, her role had earned her vital information and had enabled the Turk's to plug up a dangerous leak in the Weapon's and Development wing… But the idea of going so far as to bed a stranger for the sake of information made his stomach writhe. Not that he wouldn't do the same if he had to. He'd done murder and worse for his position, but there were limits, no matter what Turk doctrine said, limits were quite real and utterly deadly.

_You never know when you press against them when something will break. And when it breaks, it might very well be your sanity that goes._

Tseng wanted to sigh in frustration, the press of people was a drain, this job was a drain…. And he must have been letting rank get to him if mere discomfort was affecting him this badly. Still, the fact that he was discomforted was a rub, Elena's admission to the same feeling should have been much the same. Yet as they played their roles he found that -as insane that it seemed- her discomfort was alleviating his.

"Misery loving company." Elena had explained as he watched her buy some cotton candy. She had overheard his grumbles about his feeling, and much to his shock she understood Wutian very well. Nodding in sympathy she had shocked him to his core by offering an explanation in his mother tongue. While she munched on her snack and innocently asked the shop keeper if a boy with blond hair had been by Tseng abandoned her. She was more than capable of ferreting out information from the innocent on her own.

Elena found him a few moments later. A sizable bite out of the cotton cloud on a stick was missing. Looking up from his reading Tseng figured that at the rate she was going on it, the 'cloud' wouldn't last more than a half hour. When she took another massive bite from its side Tseng corrected himself, he gave the treat five minutes, tops. Flipping through the program a wandering boy clad in a chocobo costume had handed him, Tseng only nodded in greeting.

"N' luth.." Elena reported.

"Pardon?"

Watching Elena all but choke on her candy in an effort to finish the bite and report was amusing. Tseng pinned her with a look he would have given a rookie for screwing up big, and that encouraged Elena to more speed. With a grimace Elena swallowed, and winced a bit as the candy almost lodged in her throat. The head of the Turk's only watched in silent disapproval, radiating the calm annoyance that so terrified his immediate underlings.

"No luck!" Elena coughed out the words.

Perhaps with this graphic lesson she'd learn not to bite off more than she could immediately chew and swallow. Nodding his head to indicate he understood her at last Tseng handed the day's event program to Elena. Wordlessly the young Turk took it, and though for all intents one handed until she let go of her treat she pulled the gaudy yellow cover open and flipped through it with sticky fingers. Once glance at the myriad number of events and Elena handed it back.

"You're supposed to know Rufus real well, so what would he do? I just can't figure it, they got everything going on at once..."

Sparing Elena a glance from the corner of his slanted eyes Tseng waited. He indulged in an air of silent amusement and much to his surprise Elena actually caught on.

"Isn't what would Rufus do a bit of a stretch?" Elena asked, taking a much smaller bite of her snack than before.

"I'm amused that your first comment is about that rather than my religious background." Tseng countered.

"Mumph!" Was the only reply Elena bothered to divulge. Not exactly precise or even understandable, but when he pressed her for a clarification she just shrugged.

"What time did you think he got here? Did he have breakfast or anything, or are we wasting our time?"

Considering Reno's recent "Rufus' life in a nutshell" paper Tseng shook his head. No, no Rufus would not have eaten, not if he had left during his morning descent. He'd have been gone for two hours at least. A rather wide time slot that gave the Shinra heir plenty of time to drift, shop, and wander into all sorts of trouble.

"We should split up, meet me here in ten minutes..." Elena offered, beginning her suggestion with confidence. Seeing that Tseng had withdrawn into himself the young Turk fell silent and waited for her orders.

"No, that detracts from the disguise. You're with me for this stint, Elena, deal with it." Seeing that the blond was eying one of the other snack stands in longing Tseng felt his lips thin into a annoyed line. "And while you're at it you're giving me your wallet. We are _not_ here to shop."

"But s..er Tseng!"

"No buts." Grimly the Turk held out his hand and waited. With a curse Elena handed over the goods. Tseng pocketed it with a flourish and pulled her close. Much to his satisfaction Elena's eye went wide in shock, and he decided that they were now even. "Make a scene." Tseng hissed the order into her neck.

She all but choked at that, going so far as to freeze limply in his embrace. Annoyed by the Turk's dense streak, Tseng coldly set his lips over hers, and those around him whooped and howled in shock. The crowds regard was a hot presence on his back and he let his eyes slid open to scan those who'd gathered...

X

Rufus Shina was feeling very pleased with himself. His escape was flawless, and he was confident that his return would go as smooth as his disappearance had. Sipping on some overpriced lemonade -so much so overpriced he had wryly asked the server if they were going to pull a gun on him and take his wallet before giving him his drink, Rufus' small witcism had in consequence caused the price to go up- that was a bit to bitter and not cold enough Rufus spent a few idle moments flipping through the program trying to decide what he was going to see next... The sounds of a wild crowd from the snack stands made Rufus ears all but prick.

But what really teased Rufus' curiosity was that Nation's ears _did_ prick up. The Panther-hound started pulling on his heavy leather leash, ears swerved forward, beady blue eyes alight with _some_ emotion Rufus couldn't decipher...

"Easy 'Nation. Hold on a sec." Dark Nation obediently sat and looked up first to his master than to the potential scene, and wagged his long tail. Juggling leash, program, and lemonade was a trial. Still the blond Shinra heir managed by tucking the former under his arm and freeing up a not-so-numb hand to manage the latter. "Alright, let's go."

And with that minor encouragement Dark Nation took the lead, all but dragging Rufus behind him.

Nation bulled through the crowd, gleefully taking his master along for the ride. Long tail held high, the panther-hound nipped and swatted at those too slow to get out of his way, so it wasn't long until they made it to the very edge of the crowd. With a helpful growl Nation warded off any who were pressed to close to him, and Rufus got his first sight of the couple. _One of the president's_ s _ecretarys making a mark_ he thought at first, _some blond young teenybopper_. He snorted, seeing a thin trail of pink in her hair, spray on coloring, he deduced with disgust. He'd tried that stuff on one of his first escapes and a freak rain shower had ruined on of his better disguises. He missed being able to wear his favorite off grey civilian coat, but the brown hair coloring that had so easily fled his head had stained the back of his neck and the suit a dun hue. No amount of scrubbing had made it come out and Tseng had picked up the scent of dye on him and redoubled Rufus' guard for a week after that incident. Hence his scorn for the color and the wicked wish that she'd get doused. Cruel, yes, but Rufus wasn't a saint. She was thin, if not well endowed she at least seemed pretty. It was hard to make out the details seeming how the large black haired man all but engulfed her.

But some instinct nagged at him though. An innate sense of wrongness that kept a wry grin from touching his lips. Having been taught to trust those instincts Rufus listened to it and studied with half trained eyes the small things, such as posture and motion. Too possessive, this wasn't a show of affection on the man's part, the grip was too tight, too restraining, and the faint shudder the woman gave vent to wasn't that of passion rather one of distaste.

Still, they moved as one. Two partners in a passionless dance, the man obviously leading and the woman meekly following. Arms twined together, lips held in deadlock. They turned partially, a half spin, and seemed oblivious to the world around them. It was when the man made a slow sedate turn in Rufus' direction -taking the unfortunate woman who was trapped in their embrace with him- that the young Shinra felt his heart stop beating. Slanted eyes, half closed flicked over him, the crowd around him, and that familiar scar on the forehead... 'Nation barked in greeting, tail all awag, and the Turk abruptly broke off the embrace from shock. The woman staggered back, blue eyes wide in shock and face flaming.

The Turk -no other woman would have dared touch Tseng in such a way, nor would Tseng have allowed any woman who wasn't of his organization to even try- touched Tseng's arm, only that, and the Wutian turned. Rufus though was already gone, bulling his way through the crowd, all but dragging a startled Dark Nation behind him.

 


	10. Twins: A shinra's boon

Twins: Cat and mouse part 2: 

A Shinra's boon

_People are predictable." Tseng had once told him in their rare" we're inside the car going nowhere and it's private" conversations. "They are creatures of pattern, and I'd go so far to classify the bulk of them as a heard beast if that weren't prudent."_

" _Because if you told it to someone who didn't like to think it through they'd get mad." Rufus nodded to indicate that he both understood and appreciated the trust Tseng was showing him._

" _Exactly." With only a glance at the Shinra heir to convey whatever emotion he was thinking of Tseng looked to Rufus than went back to staring at the road. His eyes never left it, or the people walking along side it. Black slanted eyes, always flicking here and there, never still, yet never left their target._

_When the light turned green Tseng only nodded and set his foot over the gas. With a hum that was more felt in the bones than actually heard the Turk's car eeled forward. Like Tseng, it was quiet, dark, and probably deadly. Rufus remembered the first time he'd been bored –they'd been trapped in a traffic jam an hour or so- and had thoughtlessly reached for the glove department to pull out a map to go over. A map wasn't what had fallen out. Tseng had dropped his Wutian reserve to look panicked at finding Rufus happily playing with the long grey canister that had tumbled out. After a sharp reprimand and a light smack –barely a tap really- Tseng had firmly snatched the canister out of the whining heir's hands. Making sure that nothing had been moved –Rufus only caught a few words about a pin, whatever that was- Tseng had oh-so carefully set can into the glove box._

" _Don't dig around in my car, Rufus. Never again. Or I'll give you more than a smack." Tseng had informed the young child coldly._

_Hurt, Rufus had been sulky for the rest of the day, in school and out of it. Much to the Turk's chagrin he had found the blame lain upon him, and had even been reprimanded by Rufus' mother. So, to stave Rufus' boredom and better cow in those wandering hands Tseng would occasionally offer Rufus a few observations while driving, and Rufus would respond._

_Gnawing on his lower lip the ten year old considered his Turk's words, then suddenly an alarming thought came to him. He actually jerked a bit in his seat, and that motion sent one of those night black eyes to focusing on him._

" _Rufus, is something the matter?"_

" _I… I'm not predictable, am I?"_

" _Hardly." Tseng's lip quirked a bit and the Turk bit on the inside of his check to keep the gesture from spreading. Adverted his face, Tseng strove to refrain from showing the boy too much affection. A smile was a rare gift amongst his people, the gesture was not to be given out often or even expected. "You are hardly predictable, and that is quite a boon Rufus."_

His words once spoken in innocence were fast -how did the Continentals' put it?- biting him in the ass. They didn't dare bull their way through the crowd they'd created. To do so might have the authorities set on them. So they waded, and the flash of blond, the glimmer of grey clothes was lost in a heartbeat. Cursing, Tseng grimly went forward, all but dragging Elena behind him. With a yalp of shock the younger Turk had accepted the iron grip on her wrist, had followed. Or rather, the truth was that she staggered behind him, still she was there, and that was all that mattered. Rufus, set upon flight, would be hard to apprehend. Grudgingly Tseng realized he'd need her help…

A cry of shock on her part made his hand spasm, Tseng whirled. The press of people made each motion slow, as if he were immersed in morasses.

"Hey there sweetheart." A drunken adolescent had set his hands on Elena and the young Turk stiffened in outrage. "Bet if you'll kiss a Wutian bastard like that you'd do more than that for a Con-"

Lips locked in a stiff smile Elena slid her hand behind the bore's head, and with a slight touch sent him to his knees howling in pain. A sharp kick on Tseng's part actually flipped the boy over and left him back first on the dirt. Their foe fully dispatched Tseng offered Elena his hand once again, the Turk took it, grumbling all the while.

"Goddamned punk touched my…" Face flaming Elena rubbed her rear.

Tseng politely pretended not to hear a word she was saying and just dragged her behind him.

X

Instinct made him run like a startled hare into the crowds, at first he recklessly bulled into people, 'Nation picking up on his owner's need had taken the lead. The occasional snarl on the panther-hound's part did wonders for parting the crowd. With laughs and shouts the gathering parted from his charge, a good natured turning that was marked only by a rare curse. Seeing their goal Dark Nation skidded to a stop, his black claws easily sliding through the dirt and lightly scraping the cement underneath.

"Damn it 'Nation, run!" Rufus snarled.

With a growl of his own the panther hound loped behind his master for a few more feet, when the smell hit his nose however all twelve claws were promptly imbedded into the dirt and the tentacle grabbed at the nearest tent post. One sharp tug only prompted an odd sound that was half hiss half bark of purest outrage. Letting the leash drop Rufus all but danced in impotent frustration.

Realizing Nation wasn't going to come any closer Rufus had hit head first upon a dilemma. Leaving the Panther-hound just standing there was the same as spray painting an arrow to his goal Rufus nearly panicked. He'd let curiosity lure him almost right into Tseng's custody, and the Turk wasn't going to risk making another scene to try to lure him out again. After all, the fine line between "making a scene" and getting arrested for public disorder was a slender one and if a Turk got busted here… Hiedagger and worse _Rufus' father_ would know.

"Damn it 'Nation, fine, sit!" The Shinra heir growled.

With a relieved sigh 'Nation happily sat, and looked up at his master with curious navy blue eyes.

Ditching 'Nation, Rufus grimly advanced on the squat blue porti-potties. With a muttered "cheapskate" Rufus began to curse the event's organizer. Despite what the praises sang for them even he knew just how vile open ceiling restroom facilities were. Wind dispersed what heat mercilessly magnified and the poignant smell of urine and feces was a nauseating miasma that hung over everything around the public hygiene quarters. Hence why the food and most other tents were placed so far away from them, Rufus supposed. Nation mewed hopelessly after his master, in his animal way he was telling Rufus not to do it, not to go to the bad smelling place…

Taking a deep breath of fresh air Rufus broke out into a quick trot. Knowing Tseng as well as he did the Shinra heir figured that he only had a few minutes at best.

X

"Rufus! He's here!" Tseng snarled, dropping Elena's hand Tseng charged up to the large hound shaped creature. It looked up at the Turk, wagged its tail waved in a lazy cat like wag, then saw Elena. Black lips pulled back and the blue eyes thinned to slits.

More alarming than that came the claws, metal sheathed claws. _Oh shit…_ Fingering her gun Elena took a weary step back.

"Sir…"

She said only that, but Tseng understood.

"Easy, Dark Nation." Setting his hand over the panther-hound's head the older Turk ruffled the feline's neck scruff affectionately. "She's a new guard."

" _Grrr…"_

Ignoring the hostile science experiment gone wrong Tseng waved at Elena to stand down. Wearily the young Turk did so, though those blue eyes never left her for a second. Nor did the claws bother to sheath.

"You seriously think he had to go?" Elena asked meekly. "I mean, he wouldn't try hiding from us in one of those stalls, would he?"

"The fact he ran worries me." Tseng countered.

"And did the fact he's an adolescent ever cross your mind? Seriously sir, I have to wonder. Were you even human before the Turk's picked you, or does Wutia have such clamps down on its kids that they don't go through the rebellious teen stage?"

"Since you're being so free with your opinions you clearly don't have enough to occupy your time. My suggestion is that if you want to live to see the end of today is that you should get to work. Take the right, I've got the left." Tseng snapped over his shoulder.

Yet another growl from Dark Nation encouraged Elena to just shut up and do her job. An occurrence that probably made Tseng very happy. Not that the Wutian bastard would have bothered to show it… Two doors, and one annoyed occupant hollering about perv suits, later and Elena had her breakthrough. Flipping her phone open Elena hit the speed dial and Tseng picked up one ring later. Excitement made her voice rise, though she strove to keep it down so not to give away her position.

"Sir! He's been here!"

"I'm on my way."

With a click Tseng hung up and a few seconds later he came pounding in. Wrinkling his nose in distaste Tseng shoved her aside and considered the mess in the bathroom. Yellow tinged liquid best left unidentified slicked the floor around the toilet seat, but besides that was a scattering of fair goods. Merchandise had been dropped… no _thrown_ about the small chamber in a random manner, as if someone had come in and dropped everything they were carrying and had bolted.

But save for the door there wasn't any other way out…

Tseng, braving the dubious floor, was on his knees picking though some of the rumpled lumpy items thrown about. Elena though had gotten something of an idea and scanned the room's walls. Mutely she reached for Tseng's shoulder, and at her touch he stopped his search and followed her gaze.

"He's good." Elena breathed. "Damn good."

Tseng only cursed, for above their heads was a scuff mark, as if a booted foot had kicked off of something –probably the sink, it was the most elevated fixture in the cramped room- the wall and gone over.

"The next room." Tseng snarled, and then he was gone. There was a curse as the Turk realized that door was locked, quickly followed by the sound of fist striking the stall's plastic door.

"Damn it Rufus, this isn't a game! Come out right now!"

Elena though, remembering the scuff mark, had a different idea. With some effort she scrambled onto the sink and reached up…


	11. Twins: Turning the Tables

Twins: Cat and Mouse part 4

Turning the tables

Rufus' eyes went wide in shock as the wall right beside the one he was mounting suddenly sprouted a pair of hands. A moment later he could see the Turk that Tseng had been making out with in public. Her blue eyes met his, and they both stared at each other in shock. Rufus got over his surprise a split second after the woman got over hers.

"Tseng he's going ov-"

Her call ended in a cry of shock as he reached over to her and shoved her down. The woman instinctively flinched, and that move was enough to dislodge her from her precarious perch. With a curse she went down and Rufus grimly swung his legs over the edge and went down. A loud thump and the reappearance of those hands told Rufus he had a half second to bolt, so bolt he did. A soft thud from behind and the patter of feet behind him told Rufus he wasn't alone. Still he ran the soft grey vest he was wearing flared out behind him. Spying an opportunity Elena reached out, got a grip and Rufus whirled around fist leading. She blocked the hit easily, caught his fist and tightened her grip to the point where it began to hurt.

"Let me go!"

"Fat chance kid!" The Turk smirked at him.

"Damn it! 'Nation, tackle Tseng!"

A mock roar and a Wutian curse told him that he was being obeyed by _someone_ today. Wincing a bit at the thump of a body hitting the plastic wall of a stall Rufus hoped Nation was keeping his teeth out of the play. Though Rufus hadn't seen it, Tseng was never without his gun…

"Let me go and save your boyfriend, Turk." Rufus hissed.

"This isn't over." The blond woman snarled, letting him go she took a weary step back.

Bad move on her part. Half turning Rufus made as if considering where to run, then before even taking a step he turned on his heal, lifting one foot of the ground he let it lead. The Turk didn't even know what hit her. She staggered under the Shinra heir's attack, her foot slipped in the moist dirt. He looked down at her, the blonde woman was sprawled face first in what might have been -hopefully but very unlikely- water born mud.

Rubbing his aching knuckles Rufus let his eyes thin into slits. "Now we're even."

X

Purring, Dark Nation had pinned Tseng to the dirt. Taking cheerful advantage of his superior weight and strength the panther hound arched his back and considered the thrashing Turk with thin blue slit eyes. Finally one paw was set squarely on the Turk's chest, the claws slid out a mere fraction. The Turk, who had been snarling at 'Nation "to get off now", in a mad Master voice went very quiet.

Pleased that his mattress was going to stop grumbling Nation allowed the claws to slid back in. With a yawn the panther-hound wiggled himself all over and considered his new bed. It was pale, a suitable color for all mattresses and Master's favorite color, an added boon. And while it was somewhat rough in places and the fur at its head was course it had a nice soft covering. With a collar even. That pleased Nation the most. Collars were good, the panther hound had learned, playfully tapping the slant eyed man's grass green collar with a black paw. Collars kept the lesser creatures in line and it would give his tentacle something to wind around when he was bored.

"Dark Na... get off... I can't breathe..."

Nation met that absurd statement with a yawn. If the hume couldn't breathe it wouldn't be able to talk. With a thump of his tail Nation decided that if his mattress was going to whimper and whine Nation wasn't going to have it do so in his face. Lifting a paw to better turn the creature Tseng over Nation was interrupted from his sport by an annoying click. Ears slicked back the panther hound turned his head, neck tentacle arched up in mild distaste.

The she hume, the one that smelled of Tseng, and of Master, and flowers, and dung, and _she-ness_. Lip curling to better show his fangs Nation's aggravated glare should have told her to do something else. Still she insisted on pointing the stupid metal babble at him, Nation growled _go away_ and she paled, but didn't go away.

"Elena, don't shoot." The hume under him croaked.

"But sir!" The she whined.

"Just don't. Nation, down."

But master wasn't here! With a whine that did little to convey his frustration Dark Nation lashed his tail and tentacle about, scarring the plastic walls of the hume's "going" hole. Master had said tackle, and tackle meant hold still, and hold still made Nation sleepy. That was the Panther hound's quandary, and and Nation figured out a solution. He could tackle, hold still, _and_ take a nap, if Tseng would let Nation sleep on him...

But now Tseng was saying "down" and there were overtones of "bad" and "no supper for you" to the hume's voice.

With a howl to say how unfair it all was Dark Nation stood, walked off the hume Tseng, and the hume Tseng ungratefully growled something about a diet. Nation's ears slicked back at the awful threat and his tail drooped. Diet meant less supper, less supper meant a hungry clawing feeling in his gut that lasted until Master said otherwise...

With ill grace Dark Nation sat at the hume's feet. Even as the slant eyed creature got to its two spindly legs, Nation kept still, only lightly slapping the creature on the back of its legs when it walked by. Heaving a sigh Nation padded after Tseng, ears drooped, tail dragging.

Then the hume, Tseng, jerked as if coming out of a bad dream. He stared dumbly at the she who's face was smeared with brown.

"Elena, what in hell..."

"The bastard did some damn Wutian kung-fu kick on me or something..." Elena growled. "Now, if you're done playing with his cat sir, I need to clean up."

Before either hume or panther hound could respond the she pushed them out of her way and slammed the door behind her. Almost catching the end of Nation's tentacle in the closing. The sound of running water made Nation's ears that were spread in indignation press against his skull.

If the she was going to get her face wet with _water_ than she was torturing herself to an extreme that made Dark Nation shudder.

Water after all was _the_ ultimate evil in the world. If the she hume wanted to stick her head in it that was perfectly fine with him, he'd just stay upwind until the bad smell went away.

X

Humming as he walked, Reeve's chirpy tune did well to compliment his chocobo yellow hat and it's attending feathers. Yes, this little indulgence and so wonderfully timed sick day was doing much for improving his mood. Though, he had to admit, if the President ever heard of it this "sick day" it _would_ decimate his chances for a raise. Oh well, he hardly cared at the moment. Nibbling on the red apple smothered in chocolate sauce - _coco greens_ the sign had proclaimed them- Reeve was blissfully wandering up and down the trinket stands, wondering if he should bother getting yet another souvenir...

"Whoa, 'scuse me! Outta my way!"

A shove sent Reeve staggering. Reaching out the head of Urban Development was able to catch himself on the edge of a bracelet display, though he nearly upset the thing with his weight. Miraculously he managed to keep a hold of the snack. With an apologetic smile at the woman who's work he sent tumbling to the ground he knelt to pick up what he'd inadvertently dropped...

A few moments later a man and woman bulled past him, and this time Reeve _did_ lose his treat. Grumbling a bit -the woman was swearing enough for the both of them so Reeve didn't join in- the Wutian executive got to his feet, gingerly pulling away from the tent pole he'd snagged onto for the sake of balance.

At least the tent didn't fall on their heads, when he dared to say so the woman snarled something about it being his fault. Checking a sigh at yet another prejudiced Continental's hostility Reeve dropped a few gil on the woman's counter to cover the inconvenience and turned to walk away.

Only to find that something large and black was barreling at him. With a whimper Reeve threw his arms in front of his face, finally deciding that if Leviathan was so bent on making him face plant this afternoon he'd just get it over with...

A few minutes later Reeve staggered to his feet. Brushing dirt out of his hair and off his shirt front. Then, deciding he'd had enough excitement for the day Reeve began to pick a careful path back to the main entrance.

X

Tseng's mad dash eventually became a trot. He spent precious seconds looking around and with a defeated growl he slowed his jog down to a walk. From the walk with only a curse to warn of another slowdown the Turk just stopped in the middle of no-where. Clutching his side Tseng indulged in the purely human agony of raw exhaustion. His partner followed suit, actually going so far as to bend double and gasp for breath.

"My... god... he runs... fast..." Elena croaked. "What's.. he ...got... haste materia?"

Tseng only growled in response, too weary for words. In truth they'd long lost Rufus. They'd wasted time chasing after glimpses of blond haired heads, and amongst a city that boasted a populating in the millions it was a futile pursuit.

Perhaps seeing some of the defeat in Tseng's eye Elena tried to smile. "Hey... not over yet... we could call.. for back up... right?"

Call for back up? Tseng shook his head with a wry smile. No they dared not, but they were alone in this mission for reasons the younger Turk would understand. They couldn't call for back up because call and threaten as much as he liked the second Heidegger heard that Rufus was involved he'd cut Tseng off completely and throw both Turk and heir to the wolves.

"Aren't you taking this whole professional pride thing too far?" Elena dared to whine.

Again Tseng shook his head, but this time when he smiled at his Turk and it was a bit more genuine. He reached for his cell phone and Elena's face brightened, fond images of search helicopter and armies of Turk reinforcements floating through her head.

Typing in a few numbers Tseng motioned for Elena to get them something to drink, then spying an empty bench he dragged himself towards it. The plastic was hot, it's hole pattern pinched at the seat of his pants. Nation padded out of the crowd and joined him. The creature's long black tongue was lolled out as he caught his second wind. The panther hound lazily joined the Turk, going so far as to set his head on Tseng's lap.

Elena returned a few moments later, no drinks, and a mildly annoyed expression on her face. Waving at her to wait Tseng nodded to some unheard sally from the other line.

"...picked up. You've been very evasive today." The Turk noted blandly. "So, where are you?"

X

His phone rang. Blinking Rufus stopped walking and answered it, not needing to even read the caller ID line since he had his phone symphonically aligned to indicate who was calling. Still feeling as if it were all far too surreal the young Shinra heir picked up, tentatively saying hello.

"Hello Rufus, enjoying yourself this afternoon?"

"Quite." Sitting wasn't an option, the place didn't have anything to speak of furniture wise. It was just mirrors and floors and gloom. A hundred other Rufus' in a grey vests with light blue shirt and pants swayed a bit as they mutely mouthed the response of their original.

"I'm pleased, as well as surprised that you picked up." Came the response on the other line. It was cool, unruffled, and if he closed his eyes Rufus could see Tseng sitting in his office behind that long red oak desk he favored. "So, where are you?"

"Well, to be frank, I don't know." Rufus answered with a chagrined cough. "I got turned around, but I think that's the whole point of a maze, right?"

Tseng only chuckled at that. The relaxed note to the Turk's tone was such a stark contradiction to his earlier fury that Rufus shivered. It could be false, a skin of ice barely covering a boiling interior. He remembered stories of how cold Tseng got when he was his most furious. Having never even been on the brunt of Tseng's anger before Rufus was at a bit of a loss to discern which he was facing. A truly forgiving Turk, or one that was coolly fishing for information so that he could hunt Rufus down all the better...

 _Assume both_.

Deciding to go to the left Rufus held the phone to his ear, straining both to hear signs of either someone approaching or some hint on the other line to tell him where the Turk was hiding at. All that was on Tseng's line was his voice or a silence that was marred with an omnipresent hum. Oh well, starting a bit when he found a dead end with a mirror that made him seem as tall as a titan Rufus turned on his heel and retraced his steps.

"So, where are _you_ at?" Rufus asked, deciding to go right this time. As his feet picked the path Rufus amused himself by gloating over the fact that he had turned the tables on his Turk.

Silence only answered his question, silence and that muffling hum. Then, with a pained noise, Tseng finally replied. "To be honest... we got turned around."

"Some guard you are." Rufus teased. "You got lost in a _fair_?"

"Yes. I did. And you have plenty of reason for casting doubt on my credentials. This has... been a humbling experience for me." Clearing his throat the Turk changed topic. "By the way, Dark Nation is with me, just in case you were concerned."

"Damn it..." Rufus growled, it was another dead end, except his image was a blur. A gold topped blue grey smear that swirled upon itself with every motion he made.

"Turned around?" Tseng murmured.

"It's a good maze." Rufus answered.

Turning away from his distorted image he picked the contorted path, the road that turned upon itself. He'd avoided since it looked like a dead end, and was mildly surprised to see that at it's end it opened up into a long corridor. Eagerly he went for the clear path, and winced as he plowed face first into a glimmering wall of mana. Clutching his nose and swearing at the solid illusion the Shinra heir staggered back and tried to retrace his steps.

Only that there were no steps, only a hundred Rufus' cast in crazed angles and shapes.

"Rufus?" Tseng sounded a bit worried. As he gave in with a sigh Rufus sat on the hard dirt floor. It surprised the blonde that he couldn't even consciously remember a time when the Turk hadn't sounded concerned for his wellbeing.

"Nym 'ine..." Rubbing his smarting nose the Shinra continued. "Well... I'm completely lost, but otherwise fine."

A choked noise on the other line made Rufus start a bit. Rufus' concern evaporated under the flames of outrage when he realized that the Turk was trying not to laugh.

"Oh yeah, well I bet you'll get lost when you come in here!"

"And where would _here,_ be?" Tseng countered, as cool and distant as always.

"You're a Turk, you figure it out!" Rufus snapped, and with that he hung up.

X

Grimacing Tseng set the phone down, on his lap. The red Shinra logo flashed on its ice blue backdrop once, and then the whole screen went black.

"What are you doing here?" The Turk growled. "Didn't I just give you an order?"

"Yes sir, but you still have my wallet." Elena explained. Seeing her boss' expression she grimaced. "I take it," with a delicacy that mirrored her tone, Elena folded herself onto the bench besides Tseng, "that he snapped at you?"

The Turk nodded, and by the set of his jaw Elena would have guessed Tseng was clenching his teeth together to the point they must be hurting. Silence stretched between them, Elena said nothing only leaned back against the yellow bench's back and watched the crowds. The mechanical motions involved in "aimlessly wandering" soon bored her, and she yawned. There were island-lets, spots of semi-stillness around the more prosperous stands, but beyond that the mass of humanity meandered in a steady tide, ever forward, to the outermost edge, then back again to the entrance. Its deviants were the dividing paths water cut around the stone, and the slow rocking of back and forth was universal.

"How long... does this "stage" you were speaking of earlier, last?" Tseng finally asked.

"It depends on how long it takes the kid to knuckle under the responsibilities of an adult and accept those responsibilities. It also depends on if the kid in question want's to take up a specific set of duties up, or if he picks another."

"He's the vice president." Tseng countered. "He's had all the privileges and duties his whole life, he's knows nothing else."

"Really?" Raising an eyebrow in amusement Elena turned from her people watching to stare at her boss. He made an odd picture, a full grown Turk just staring blankly at a dead phone in his lap. The man's expression might have been mournful, if Turks were allowed to be that emotional, that was. "Somehow I don't think that's _all_ he's ever known. We know this wasn't the first time he's slipped the leash... Maybe he doesn't want to be a VP." Lifting a hand Elena tugged at the gloves that covered her hands, tugged on the fingerless tips as she thought. "He's damn good at playing Turk, maybe he wants to be a Turk instead."

"He's the vice president." Came the expected, dogged, reply.

"The thing about the "stage" is that the kid who goes through it grows up, Tseng. The roles we've tried to mold them into, sometimes they break free of those and become something else. Other times they just walk away. Though it sounds easier the walking away’s a lot harder. When you walk away you have to cut ties, and it's a long hard road when you have no one to back you."

"You sound... experienced on this front." Tseng grumbled, folding the long ago dead phone at long last. The devices' halves came together with a click, and the Turk slipped it into his pants pocket.

Biting at her nail, Elena squirmed in discomfort. "I just went through it more recently then you did. That's all."

"Truly?" He looked up, a small twitch in the vicinity of his upper lip was the only proof of returning good humor.

"If you didn't go through it, wouldn't you be farming or something in Wutai right now?"

That earlier twitch became a bit more pronounced. A few moment's later it spread into a half smile. "Unlikely that. They wouldn't have trusted me with something sharp. After all, half breeds are always prone to insanity." Tseng stood, brushed off his front then offered his Turk a hand. Elena took it, half amused that Tseng was going to resume their little charade once again.

"I'm parched, aren't you?" Elena asked, she craned her head so that her gaze was riveted on a lemonade stand some point distant.

"Moderate thirst _could_ be an impediment to our duties." Was Tseng's only reply, still he did allow himself to be gently pulled towards the lemonade stand by his over eager Turk.

"Come on, Tseng, I'm thirsty!" Elena whined, "Stop stalling!"

"You're paying, I assume?" Tseng tightened his grip to a painful level, smiling while he did so. The girl took his not-so subtle hint and dropped her voice down to more reasonable levels.

"Fine." She sulked, kicking at the sod. "I'll pay whatever. Can we go now?"

Fishing out the Turk's wallet from his back pocket Tseng tossed it to her. Elena caught the leather casing with a smug smirk.

"I'll be right here, you run along, _dear_. And get me something to drink while you're at it."

"You call me _dear_ one more time and I swear I'll tell your secretary that you have a crush on her." Elena said in Wutian with a utterly fake smile plastered to her face.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Tseng countered coolly, speaking as she had, in his mother tongue.


	12. A Smile

The Files

Twins:  I, Smile?

 

"Umm... you wanna go in? No one wants to go in cuz everyone who goes in winds up havin' to wait for the help to get 'em out."

Two flat glares met the toll man's pronouncement. The woman with blond hair and a daring scarlet skirt opened her mouth as if to say something, but the tall green and blue clad man gently ribbed her.

"Not now."

"But..."

"Boasting is a sin, not a virtue. And it can be a damning sin besides."

"Fine, be that way."

Wrinkled face becoming more so, the gate keeper of the maze smiled at the couple's banter. Above him, cast in Shinra red and white the sign read, "Impossible Maze", and for all his years running it Charlie had never seen someone beat it. The confident, the strong, the head-strong, the intellectual, they'd all fallen for it before. They walked in and the didn't come out until someone with the scan materia went in after them and waded through the mess of illusions and mirrors.

Something about these two made Charlie's nerves tingle. Something about them was intent, searching. It was more in the man than the woman, but it was there. Running a calloused hand over his bare scalp he considered the young man in front of him. He was pale, that much was for sure, but most Midgarians were, but unlike them his paleness was almost shallow. Only the obvious physical strength and absent grace the man moved with told the aged maze keeper that the young man wasn't sickly.

If he was that pale and not sick then... squinting through the sun glare the old man drew in his next breath in a surprised hiss.

Wutian, part anyways, the man was too husky to be a full bred. And the telltale slant eyes were only partially hidden by the sun glasses the man had acquired somewhere.

"We'll be fine." The man murmured, hearing the old man's hiss he didn't comment on it.

"Um... _You'll_ be fine," at the accusatory glare the Wutian shot at her the young woman in red grimaced. "Look, I don't like mazes."

"Scared you'll get lost?" The Wutian's voice was very cold. So much so that Charlie shivered a bit, even though he wasn't getting talked to.

"Something like that. It seems though that you and you-know-who need to have a talk. And I don't want to get caught in the middle of it." She smiled wryly, daring the man's private winter and risking an avalanche all in the name of humor. "I don't like sitting on the sidelines of potential gun fights, all right?"

"It won't get that b-"

"Now you listen here young man, you aren't taking any guns into my maze. You know how much it costs to fix them mirrors when they accidentally break? You ain't goin' in, much less havin' a damn fight with that kid who's been there for Ifrit knows how lon-."

Black screened eyes flicked on him, and Charlie's bravery flagged. The young man's gaze and tell nothing expression was decidedly more creepy than the odd searching air about him earlier.

"If you were so concerned, why haven't you gathered him before this?" The Wutian growled.

In response Charlie pointed to the sign behind him, and the black screened eyes read the text, a small frown touched the young man's lips.

"Company policy." Charlie said coolly. "Always give 'em an hour."

"Company policy is always synonymous to hypocrisy at best, and pure stupidity at worst." Was the Wutian's only response. "Elena, cover my tab at the counter."

And with that the Wutian ducked under the tent's flap and went inside.

X

_"Don't make the same mistake my folks did." Surprised Tseng looked up from sipping on the outrageously priced drink, turned his black eyes to face his Turk._

_"I beg your pardon?"_

_"When I didn't want to be what they wanted me to be, I was thrown out. Literally. One hit to the face, on night on my families porch, but my God how it changed everything. I couldn't talk to them about it without feeling sick inside. They never understood, tried to get me help, and by help I mean psychological help, because there was something wrong with me..."_

_"Because you wanted something they didn't want?"_

_"Because I admired the Turks, I didn't even want to be a Turk back then, I just... looked up to them. The competence, the influence, that's what drew me in. I didn't know about the blood and killing until later, and even when I found out... it wasn't that bad. Not really." Sipping her drink Elena let out a little sigh. "My family didn't understand, didn't try, and so they threw me out. I'm damn lucky that Shinra_ did _take me in on my first try, because if they hadn't I would never of had the strength to... to do what I had to do to get in the first time."_

_"And... what did you do the first time? If you don't mind me asking?" Tseng asked, stirring the ice in his drink with a red straw._

_"That's none of your business."_

_"Fine." Tseng shrugged. Her past, her business, he wouldn't pry. Disdaining the straw he took a draw from his drink and grimaced at the bitter taste. A Limeade wasn't anything like a Lemonade he learned._

_"Fine." Elena echoed listlessly._

_X_

He had not needed Elena's reprimand on rebellion, in truth her earlier statement of his being long over was far from the truth.

It had never stopped.

He'd never stopped his private war with the conflicting blood in his veins. Every breath was a blow. Every second of his life he spurned the blood of his mother because of her weakness and hated his ties to his father, the man he'd never met.

Every time he touched his gun and felt a sense of rightness he'd walked away from a heritage where swords were considered the supreme weapon.

By contrast the freedom and comfort he felt while wearing a kimono, the soft kiss of silken folds over his scared flash, it was another break, save it was a break from the culture that found such garments feminine.

"A kimono?" Laughing Rufus Shinra had looked up at his Turk, he tried valiantly not to laugh, but the young boy's lips were twitching, a bad sign... "You wear a... a..."

"Yes." Face turning red Tseng continued. "Sometimes. On my off time. And if you are imagining a pink floral encrusted garment like that one in your history book shows you clearly underestimate my culture. A male wears a specific type of kimono that is _quite_ masculine."

Arms crossed over his chest the ten year old Shinra had raised an eyebrow. "Prove it."

So Tseng had, he'd slipped the garment into his suitcase the next day and had lain it out on the young Shinra's bed, allowing Rufus to go over the garment not only with his eyes but with his hands. After a long studious examination Rufus had conceded that Tseng was right, and then he'd turned on his Turk, a glimmer of mischief in those eyes.

"Put it on." That went too far. Their friendship aside, that just went too far. Rufus could see that little fact for himself, if not in the rising red of the Turk's cheeks then by the utter fury the negative had been voiced in. Quick to recover his grace the young Shinra considered the garment, then smirked. "Fine, Tseng, could you stand outside for a bit?"

"Am I being dismissed?" The Turk growled ominously.

"No, just repositioned to a... more beneficial local."

Ironic how those words that had made Tseng curse the boy's literature teacher for a month after would be so ominous for them both. Tseng had followed his orders, stood outside, and when Rufus had knocked on the door to indicate he wanted out Tseng had opened it. His thoughts had been on the irony of how Rufus' father would do a similar little knock upon the door when he wanted out of the HoneyBee suite, he'd been wondering how Rufus knew that specific knock...

The way clear, Rufus staggered out, weighted down by long blue sleeves and a flowing garment many sizes too large. Tseng had dropped his reserve to laugh at the sight of a _Shinra_ clad in the customary garb of a Wutai. Rufus' mother, who had also been with them, dared a smile. It was a worn expression upon a pale sickly face. Still it was the first and last genuine smile Tseng would ever see on the woman's face...

A crisp knock on the door and Rude's slightly raised voice had snapped the Turk back to reality. But before he could do anything the door swung open and in had stepped Alex Shinra himself. Upon seeing his son dressed in Wutai garb the man's broad face had turned scarlet, his thick jowls quivered in rage.

Amongst more immediate and painful consequences Rufus had been... transferred to a "more beneficial local" for a handful of years. Not so long for the indifferent or for the middle aged, for them time was a quick thing that came and went and had abandoned them somewhere in the middle. No, for the young, for the caring, five years was an eternity. Five years in the furthest reaches of the world had been hell. The excuse was laudable, Rufus was to be sent to an Arctic back water town for "educational purposes". At fifteen Rufus had come back, spurning his father's orders he'd enrolled himself into one of the more popular high schools on the upper plate.

The weeks after Rufus' return had been a blur, a blur that barely covered his panic. He'd seen Rufus only once in that time, having been the first person to greet the young Shinra when he'd hopped out of the helicopter on that long ago day. Nothing had been harder than to uphold a facade of cool competence. Hands clasped behind his back, he'd blinked back a stinging pain in his eyes -the pain caused by the dirt that the ‘copter's blades were kicking up- and had waited.

The storms of his emotions had cut his insides to a million pieces, a fitting simile, for as he plunged deeper into the maze a million flickering distorted Tseng's followed him along illusionary paths.

"What the hell are you doing back here? I didn't give you orders-"

"When," Rufus had asked coldly. "-does the vice president of a company need orders to return from a pointless expedition? The North Crater has no potential, old man, and I'm not freezing to death for your amusement."

The shock of hearing such adult speech from someone barely in adolescence had the same effect as a mastered ice materia would have. Tseng's insides went Attic cold, his feet had refused to move, as if they'd been iced to the hot cement.

Alexander Shinra's mouth sagged open in absolute shock. With a dismissive flick of his eyes Rufus banished his father from his sight, and from his thoughts. Running a hand though his unruly blond locks, Rufus thoughtfully contemplated his over long bangs. Then, whatever thoughts he'd contemplated were set aside, the adolescent turned to Tseng, regarded him for the first time since landing.

"Hello Tseng, how have you been?"

Unable to think, unable to comprehend the changes he saw in his once carefree charge, Tseng had licked his lips. One hard swallow later he tried his voice and found that it cracked only a little bit around the edges. "Well enough... sir."

"Very good." A flash of surprise graced those ice hued eyes, a glimpse of pain? Tseng didn't know this young man in front of him, not yet. Understanding would come later. For now, neutrality seemed safest. "And I am as well as can be expected, thank you for asking."

"He didn't ask you anything you brat. And don't you dare walk off, you're going straight back if I have to shove you ass first into that copter my-"

"I hate to ask, so soon after we've been reunited..." Rufus sighed a bit melodramatically. A glimmer of old humor was alight in his eyes. "-but could you please detain that... stranger from laying a hand on me? I'd like to visit Mother before I settle in."

"You're mother's _dead_ , brat." The elder Shinra snarled. His thick hands were clenching into fists as he advanced on grim step after another on his ward. The man's tone of voice promised that his son would soon be seeing his mother on a permanent basis. Tseng's hands hand clenched into fists at the unspoken threat.

Eyes as cold and barren as the Arctic realms their owner had been banished to settled upon the red faced president, and the older man stopped in his tracks. Scarred by the emptiness in his son's gaze.

"I am well aware, of mother's fate. You don't need to remind me. However, it could be bad publicity to deny me a visit with her. Or rather, I can _make_ it bad publicity."

"You little ba-"

The president had swung his fist and Tseng -unthinkingly- had stepped between the two of them. He'd caught the older man's blow, done nothing more than block the hit though he'd ached to do more. But to retaliate would have been suicide. A click of a gun's safety being pulled was enough make Tseng let go of Alexander Shinra's fist and take a step back. Ignoring the middle aged Shinra -who turned a satisfying shade of white as he realized that he'd become a living obstacle in the middle of a potential gun fight between two professional killers- Tseng looked over the graying man's head to the Turk who'd instinctively pulled a weapon on him. With a nod to reassure the younger Turk that all was under control Tseng shifted a half step to better guard Rufus' retreat.

"This isn't over, you hear me brat? We aren't finished yet!" The elder Shinra howled.

Rufus had simply went on, and soon the boy's father was only screaming at the empty uncaring air.

More ruthless, more focused, and damned stubborn besides. Tseng's lips curled into a wry grin, the other illusions of the Turk did a passable attempt at following suit. Yes, Rufus had become all those things, and for now seeing those things in the adolescent Tseng could see his mark on the child. A rough flexibility, that was there too, an ability to see things from many angles. An awareness, if not a sympathy, for those from the differing worlds within one world, there was that too. Unintentional, certainly flexibility was not a facet of life Tseng would have thought suitable for Rufus to learn of so soon, but it was there.

Yet Rufus was a child still, despite all his adult mannerisms.

The road stretched before the Turk, it's avenues were of cut crystal, bent light, and distracting shimmers. But it stretched before him, and he took his place on it and went forward, not bothering once to look back.

X

About half an hour after entering Tseng stepped out of the maze, a tired Rufus in tow. Elena hopped to her feet, checked the urge to salute her superior and at the last moment turned the move into a wave. With a nod to say yes he'd seen her, and a jerk of his head to told her to go somewhere else until he needed her. Eager to get out of the way, Elena all but ran in her attempt to follow orders.

"So, you aren't mad?" The Shinra heir asked as his Turk in Wutai

"No Rufus-sama, so stop looking at me like I'm going to strike you. You made a mistake, but I in turn made many. In time, we'll sort matters out between the two of us. But here is not the place for such a talk, nor is now the time. We'll finish our conversation that we started a bit later. Now then, for the immediate, I want to extract something of a promise from you."

"That I'll take a Turk with me when I go out?" Rufus groaned, switching back to Continental.

"No," Tseng corrected Cooley. "That you will either enlist me or Rude to go out with you, not _just_ a Turk."

Curious Rufus pushed back his omnipresent blond bangs out of his eyes. He did so to better show the eyebrow he'd raised. Reading the silent question, Tseng smirked. It was good to know that Rufus was still innocent, on some levels at least.

"Politics." Tseng explained. "In the end it boils down to Turk politics."

"I didn't know your people played at politics."

"Mine don't, Heidegger's do."

"Ah." Rufus nodded. The Wutian frowned, wondering where the boy had acquired the strange habit of moving his head so minimally. Contenentals generally nodded so vigorously that they looked akin to the bobble heads they used to adorn the dashboard of their cars. "Yeah, I can figure that, I mean, he is the President's favorite lap dog after all."

"Exactly." Tseng absently slowed his pace until Rufus was a few steps ahead. Standard Turk procedure, but then remembering that he wasn't -for the moment- supposed to be a Turk he stopped. Confused.

"It's hard out here, isn't it?"

Rufus had stopped only when he couldn't hear the familiar foot fall of his Turk loyally following behind. A wry smile quirked the side of his face, and the Shinra leaned against the red waist high fence, looking out on the whirling storm of humanity that was a mere arm’s length away. They were alone, despite the fact that there were people around. As a whole humanity was a monomaniac species, so wrapped up in their affairs that they wouldn't have noticed anything unless it directly related to them. So Turk and Vice President stood on the border, untouched by what was around them.

"That's the first thing I learned, it's hard out here. Different, gritty, rough, I... don't have the words. It's like a different world, but it's more real, for being different. Maybe you don't see it, but that's why. That's the reason you asked for, when you found me and I couldn't say what was wrong, I guess this was it."

"The _world_ , Rufus?" Tseng asked, aghast. At his tone, Rufus turned to stare at the Wutian. "That's what's wrong?" Drawing a deep breath the Turk shook his head. He considered his charge for a long moment, firmly not responding to the confusion that was in those blue eyes. Understanding came, and with it followed relief. "No, it's... not that. It's your lack of understanding of the common place, correct? That's what disorients you and preys upon you."

"Yes, but why the odd reaction at first?" The Grey clad boy tilted his head to the side. A Wutian mannerism, that. Something like pride flared in Tseng's breast, though it was tinged with worry.

"I knew a man," Tseng said, both diverting Rufus from knowing the whole truth and answering all in the same breath. "Who was dissatisfied with the world. He tried to destroy it."

"Really Tseng, I'm a little old for bed time stories."

At that the Turk laughed, for that is exactly how he expected Rufus to reply. "I don't know." The Turk countered, waving his hand to indicate their surrounding's for emphasis. "It seems odd for someone of such professed maturity to be lingering in a place such as this..."

To that Rufus sniffed. A sense of injured pride hung about him, showing that he was ever the adolescent. "For _your_ information I picked this event because it was the absolute opposite place that I figured you'd search."

"So you figured on being caught?"

Casting a sly glance over his shoulder Rufus turned to again regard the crowds. "I know you, Tseng. I've known you for years." Clearing his throat Rufus continued in a chagrined tone. "You didn't umm... kill that Ralph guy, did you? I figured you'd be pretty mad and the man does have a family after all..."

"He's currently masquerading as you back and headquarters. Reno and Rude are acting as they usually do, though they've circulated the story that you are mildly ill and not carrying on your customary activities for the day."

"Translation: I'm going to have twice as much work to tackle when I get back."

"Every action has a cost. The most common situation that stems from calling in sick is that it _does_ leave you with the unpleasant duty of catching up when you return."

"You better not be smiling, Tseng." Rufus growled, staring long and hard at the people in front of him.

"I, sir, smile?" Tseng murmured, telling his lips not to so much as quirk. Rufus wouldn't hurt him, but some stories might come out, ex specially that one about the kimono. His professional dignity was on the line, so Tseng didn't crack so much as a grin.

But it was as hard as hell not to.


	13. Wind Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rufus and Tseng, a little of what happened between them in that room, though not all of it. One thing I wanted to accent was that Rufus does have serious emotional problems, and Tseng does too. Though they both express them wildly differently, Tseng's temper is not one thing to flipantly envoke, among other things.

Twins: 

Wind down

It was odd to see them together like this. Odder still to be trailing behind them, listening and watching. She wasn't a spy, by no means she was reporting a word of this to Heidegger, but... it felt like she was intruding on something private. Setting her hand on the now friendly panther hound's head -a quick trip to the fish and chip stand did wonders for their relationship- Elena smiled and waved a hand. The gesture said 'forget about me', but clearly Rufus wasn't having none of that.

"Thank you for... taking care of Dark Nation for me, and... sorry about earlier."

Before Elena could say a word, or even get over her shock over a Shinra apologizing, Tseng chimed in.

"Turks are trained to expect the unexpected; it is Elena's fault for not being prepared."

 _Thank you so much sir_. The Turk thought rebelliously. Then, since Tseng's back was to her, Elena made a face. Rufus flashed her a grin that said he understood and went back to people watching. Amazing, what the heir to the most powerful company would indulge in. People watching was considered a passive sport, the poor man or an eccentrics past time... Still Rufus seemed to enjoy it. And it _was_ a quiet reprieve after an afternoon of pure chaos. While bored Elena shelved the feeling, indulged in her rest, and was quiet.

Something Tseng seemed to enjoy more than the quality time spent with the young Shinra.

It had taken Elena a long time for her to realize what was going on, truth be told. The paths Rufus and Tseng had strolled slowly became less populated, more elevated, and at last they'd just stopped. It had been on the tip of Elena's tongue to suggest a few sights and events before the two of them had just stopped dead still in the middle of nowhere. Her suggestion had been held back by common sense, then had been enveloped in worry when both of them just continued to stand there and do nothing. She seriously was going to call an ambulance, thinking they were both being hit with a royal case of sun sickness, when Tseng had moved a hand, only that. The absent gesture told her to put the phone back in her pocket and be still.

So she was still, and it was only when she'd moved to stand besides Rufus that she understood what had hypnotized Wutian outcast and Continental princeling alike.

Humanity. The familiar, boring, tide, with it's sedate back and forth rocking and rolling was memorizing to those who lived beyond it. To the young man who'd spend a lifetime watching it's surface but never understanding... and to the older man who had clawed through it's depths, seeing it little more than an obstacle to be surmounted... Humanity was fascinating, and they both watched, enraptured by the everyday.

They'd never said a word, not to each other, both had dismissed her from their minds. It was an all exclusive closeness. Not snobbery, though the unobservant would have thought it was. Stroking Dark Nation's head Elena smiled a bit, and wondered what was going through their minds. A warm, raspy tongue brushed her fingers, and she looked down, amused.

Dark Nation only looked up, noisily slurping his thick tongue back behind white fangs. A hopeful gleam was in those dark blue eyes. One tentacle was already snaking towards the pocket that held her wallet.

_Hint hint_

With a small chuckle Elena ruffled the cat's fur, swatted away the coiling furless appendage that was slowly slithering towards her pocket and took up the creature's leash. Nation's long tail swept in a lazy arch. Though he'd been scolded he knew what the taking up of his leash meant. It meant food, or at least moving, and one or the other was chalk full of possibilities.

"Nation's hungry, and so am I, we'll be back in a bit. Did either of you want anything?"

Tseng grunted, Rufus didn't even blink.

"Alright then, Nation will pick dinner out. I wager it will be fish for everyone!" Elena chirped, desperately trying to get a response. Both Turk and charge didn't even wince at that subtle threat. If Dark Nation _really_ picked dinner it would be large, and bloody, and possibly still screaming.

"I swear." Turning on her heel Elena padded off, grumbling under her breath. A happy Dark Nation happily keeping pace. "They both need their heads checked."

XXX

_It was shameful to admit it, but he was scared of the dark. And down this corridor the gloom was thickening to a truly lightless variety. He suddenly wanted to turn back, back to the light and it's confusing, distorted images. Anything was better than this blackness that was so intense it alluded to oblivion._

_"Rufus?"_

_A familiar voice called from the way back, except the way back was lost. For every step forward the old paths were cut off, and he was intelligent enough to realize that the disorienting facet of the maze was a product of materia. Still, hope flared in him, hope and fear. He licked his lips, tried his voice, and found it wanting._

_"T.. Tseng?"_

_"Rufus!"_

_"Over here! In the back!"_

_At the familiar sound of feet bounding on turf Rufus sighed in relief. For the moment fear was forgotten, and he waited with anticipation for someone to finally get him out of here._

_Tseng came, impossibly stepping out of a wall that was there then not there for a heartbeat. Rufus blinked, and in that moment lost the second where the wall reformed. It was there, and so was Tseng._

_"How.. you.. I can't see through this bloody maze and you just stroll thought it like its' nothing!" Rufus flared._

_Clearly this wasn't the greeting Tseng was expecting. With a surprised expression the Turk pulled back his sleeve, showing a bracer that showed many unbleeding gouges. Small orbs adorned the bracelet, they cast slew of warm light which licked around the Turk's wrist._

_"Scan Materia, sir." Tseng explained coolly._

_"D... don't call me that." Angry, frustrated, Rufus suddenly felt cheated. "We aren't in public or anything! I told you that you're not to call me that unless someone in father's employ was about!"_

_"That request was almost ten years ago, forgive me for forgetting."_

_Though the sir was left unsaid, it hung about them, a damning reprimand._

_"Whatever." With a flick of his hand Rufus dismissed the Turk's words with a gesture, and tried to banish his anger. But it still lingered. A flat and slithering entity. The odd anger's mere presence was ruffling the tranquil facade he upheld and making it a lie._

_Tseng, a master of reading through lies, said nothing. But his black eyes that were half lost in the blackness around them told all._

_"I believe, it is in my rights to demand an explanation." The Turk said coolly. Anger was there, making the blank blackness of Tseng's eyes stir._

_Great, I'm trapped in the dark with a pissed Turk. Biting his lip Rufus took a half step back before he realized what he'd done. But the motion was made, and recognition in both of them set the lesser forces of rage aside in them both. They looked at each other, lost in their own confusion._

_"You've changed, Rufus." Tseng murmured. "The person I knew would not have tried this."_

_Unspoken again were the words, and the person I have known would never have feared me. Sudden shame made Rufus' face flame, he turned away from Tseng._

_"People change a lot in time, did you expect me to be the same, always?" Rufus growled, the noise was halfhearted at best._

_"Change is one thing, rebellion another." Blinking Rufus turned once more, but this time to face his Turk. "Rebellion with yourself garners you nothing, save unhealed wounds."_

_As if saying words from an old play, Rufus' lips formed an old response to the new situation. "Typical Wutian sentimental drivel." At the shear disappointment in Tseng's gaze Rufus felt himself blanch "No... Nothing's wrong... Damn it, don't look at me like_ that _!"_

_"I gave up my freedom years ago. My actions are rarely my own, but I'll be damned if anyone tells me what to think or feel! You are lying to me Rufus," Tseng hissed. "and no man, Continental or otherwise, has the right to say other wise."_

_"If I say I am fine, I trust you to trust in me that I am." Rufus snapped. Meeting the Turk's anger and frustration with a bit of his own._

_Wrong response that, the anger that was housed in those eyes had been a mere shimmer and with those words Rufus had worked up to a boil. If that pallid face stained crimson in rage, eyes blazing with fury, was the last that a Turk was expected to see before they died little wonder that Turk's killed themselves before having to face Tseng's rage. Rumors of the man being called a devil suddenly made sense, for in his deepest rage Tseng looked like something from the pit._

_Still Rufus held his ground, he didn't back down, though his eyes went wide and they burned from within. Not with rage, but with an unspeakable pain..._

_"I'll be damned if I'll accept being lied to Rufus." Tseng hissed, his hands settled on Rufus' shoulders, and the grip tightened._

_With a slight shrug and quick half step Rufus left the vest he'd picked up at some random clothing stand in Tseng's hands. The Turk didn't have a second to even show his surprise, for Rufus took another step back, made a half turn..._

_Tseng's hand snapped up, caught the Shinra's ankle in an iron grip and stopped the blow before it fell. Before Rufus could even recover from the stinging blow of having the hit stopped the Turk let go. He pushed back, and let go. Before he'd realized what had happened Rufus was sprawled in the dirt at his Turk's feet._

_"Clearly there are issues unresolved if violence is the only recourse you feel is left open to you." Tseng snarled._

_"Damn it..." Pulling himself to his feet the blond adolescent gingerly set weight on his aching ankle. It protested via a sharp stab of pain, but Rufus stubbornly shook it off._

_"Are you done showing off your ineptitude at hand to hand combat, sir, we should be off. This isn't the place or time for an argument of that sort."_

_"Don't talk to me like I' m my father!" Rufus roared._

_"Then," crossing his arms over his chest the Turk countered, "don't act like him."_

_Tseng's betrayal couldn't have been more complete. Blood draining from his face Rufus all but crumpled where he stood. Pale, shaking, shamed, he looked up at Tseng with wide wounded eyes. The Wutian Turk offered no comfort; he only looked down at Rufus with sad, tired, eyes._

_"Now," The Turk murmured, "we are even."_

_Revenge was, for them both, a bitter brew not the least satisfying._

_X_

"So, when did you and that girl start going out?"

They'd both agreed that here and now wasn't the place for their talk. That conversation would be held later tonight once Rufus had caught up with his put off correspondence. It would be a long night, and with an annoyed Turk playing guard it would practically drag, and the conclusion... Rufus was half looking forward to it, just wanted it to be gone, out of the way. So they both could pick up the pieces that they'd both inadvertently broken.

"We, are not "going out", as you put it. She was merely an assistance for today's mission, a prop, a screen to hide my presence. After all, you would hardly expect me to be with a woman, would you not?"

That much hadn't changed at least. Relieved, Rufus smiled at nothing in particular. It was nice to see that Tseng hadn't changed all that much. Pattern, they'd fallen into pattern then, and neither had bothered to see beyond it. Protector and protected, Turk and the President's Son, those were old roles, old titles, and both were best discarded, starting here and now. It was only when they looked under the surface of those old roles to see the people underneath that things would be all right.

It might take a long while, Tseng was a secretive man, Rufus was just struggling to know what he was, it could take years.

But in the end years were the only consistent currency.

"I don't know, that girl, what's-her-name, she might have a crush on you. Most of the female Turk's do."

"I doubt that."

"Really? You know I played janitor a few times, scrubbed out the woman's bathroom once or twice on the Turk side. Your name's up there on the woman's bathroom wall, heart circled and all." Tseng made a sound much like choking. Not daring to turn, least Tseng see Rufus' smile, the young man continued. "The interesting thing, I went through the company archives a few weeks ago, and not all the names by it were secretaries."

"I'd... If you happened to remember some of those names... I'd like to see that list..." Tseng managed to choke out, clearly the dusty air didn't agree with him.

"And have a surplus of broken hearts?" Rufus sniffed in distaste. "Emotional crisis is counterproductive to beneficial activity. I think I know you well enough to guess you'd tell those girls all unfailingly polite in Wutia fashion that you weren't interested."

"Well... ye-"

"We don't have enough shrinks in the company to see all those girls through that kind of let down. Hell, there aren't enough shrinks in _Midgar_ to help nurse half those girls through their first heartbreak."

"Rufus, if you are pulling my leg, as the Continental’s would phrase it, you're pulling the wrong man's leg."

"If you doubt me go into the bathroom and take a look at that wall." The blond challenged.

That was one dare Rufus was sure that Tseng wasn't up to.


	14. Twins, Childhood is Finite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the end of the "Twins" arch, I've a few others completed but in need of editing. So as time permits, I'll alternate between updating new segments of this tale and editing what I've posted so far. I hope you enjoyed the first part of the Files series, more to come soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> Kasan Soulblade

Twins:

Childhood is Finite

 

Reeve seemed to be having problems; still, they were a minor thing. Quiet looks of speculation and confusion were easily dismissed by a man who'd been trained to interrogate and torment all in the name of the company.

Rufus though, seemed to have a few problems though. He met the head of Urban Development's speculative gazes with an air of artificial innocence. Also, that manner of mystery, while amusing, was also becoming grating. Catching Rufus' gaze one meeting, he let his eyes narrow a fraction; it was a warning, and the raised eyebrow Rufus offered as a counter told Tseng that his threat was understood. It was also ignored, for Rufus pulled the shroud of silent mystery all the tighter around his person and Reeve's dark blue eyes became even more confused.

Biting on the inside of his cheek to check a laugh, Tseng had to admit that Rufus was right. The half Wutia's pale face and wide guileless eyes made him look much like a sheep. To make matters worse Rufus caught his Turk's eyes, and mouthed 'baa'. Dropping his gaze so he wouldn't laugh, the Turk shuffled the papers in front of him a few times.

Everything was in order, it had to be, and he'd arranged everything so that his obsessive perfection standard was net. He'd had everything in place hours before hand. Punctuality was, after all, a virtue. It was important that he look his sharpest, for this was one of the first company meetings that Rufus was being allowed to attend.

Flicking his fingers, the barest of motions, he smoothed the edges of his suit's sleeve. Rufus saw the motions and nodded. Satisfied, Tseng reclined in his seat and waited to the President to arrive.

X

Murder was so common it could have been a side at the banquet of extortion and power struggles. The staple of Shinra was ever the banquet, the confections of morality and innocence the desert ever denied. It should have been normal, save thing time it was not. For the conditions had changed. No longer was it the Shinra murdering the innocent or even Shinra spilling Shinra blood. This was worse, darker than any company policy, and all the more so for it came from the outside.

"I was under the impression that AVALANGE was put down, years ago, under Veld's reign." Heideggar sneered.

"Not all its traces were cut out." Tseng countered his superior's anger and contempt with an unruffled facade. "Will the Turk's now be employed in silencing every tongue that wags? If so than I suspect you'd have a revolt in the lower, mid, and upper levels of the plate."

"The people are reliant upon Shinra." Alexander Shinra snarled. "For the people we are power. We're the damn life blood of the city!"

Reeve merely dropped his gaze, shuffled the papers in his hands. The state of the people, as well as the city, was more or less his responsibility. Yet not once had any turned to him and asked one question. He was an outsider, only kept on hand because he knew the lay of the plates, the reactors, and if any problem with either of those objects came up he'd have been addressed.

But never had he been called to give a report on the people. Their dissatisfaction was a growing echo of his own. For all his years of service he had never been permitted to say a word. From the silence his doubts would grow, magnified by the edges of his cage crafted of self-restraint. The cage, his silence, and ill ease, were compliments of Shinra. He gnawed on his lower lip, and was aware of black eyes settling on him.

The head of the Turks shook his head, only that. Scarlet had stepped forward -proverbially of course, since they were all seated- and was monopolizing the president's time with the wild suggestion of upping the arms carried by SOLDIER to encourage social order. Since Alex Shinra was occupied Tseng took a moment of his time to silently warn Reeve to back down. With a quiet huff the head or Urban development folded to Tseng's judgment.

Someone else though much accustomed to defiance ignored both warning and judgment.

The scrape of the chair being pushed back was minimal. Thick, hand woven carpets, compliments of Cosmo Canyon artisans, did much to muffle the noise. A white spire amongst the subdued colors of black and blue, Rufus stood and addressed his father.

"Mr. President."

With a negligent wave of his hand Alex Shinra dismissed his son's voice, not even bothering to hear the words. Had he bothered, the faint note of sarcasm in Rufus' voice would have been clear. Not one to be put off, Rufus tried again.

"Alexander Shinra."

That got a response, the President whipped around, his blue eyes turning to thin slits of distaste.

"I briefed you before on this boy. You are to call me "Mr. President" and are never to address me by my name."

"Yes sir," Dropping his eyes for a fraction of a second to show difference Rufus snapped them up again, meeting his father's gaze squarely. "Mr. President, if I may offer a comment to the board?"

"No, you may not. Now sit down and shut up."

Acting as if he hadn't heard Rufus continued. "It's a poor body that wages war upon itself. By increasing the weapons carried by its protectors we'd alarm the mass-"

"I said sit down! You'll do so right now, boy, and if you don't want a black eye for your troubles you'll damn well do as I say!"

Shocked by the threat Reeve cast his gaze around, trying to ferret out the reactions of his coworkers, the people he'd dubiously marked as friends... Scarlet cast Rufus an amused glance, her gaze saying louder than words she'd find a way to watch the fight between father and son and enjoy the show. Heideggar rolled his eyes at the folly of the President's child. Hojo wasn't present, nor Palmer. The welfare of the city meant nothing to them, nor the politics between father and son. Tseng's face didn't so much as move, it could have been cast of stone, the only motion was a quick one. The Turk's hands twitched, only that, and if Reeve hadn't been watching for it, he'd have missed the gesture. Its meaning though was nothing. Not to the man who'd found the somber, Wutian Turk, intimidating.

No one was angry, appalled, and neither father or son broke out of their silent glaring match to assure Reeve that Alex hadn't meant it.

X

Tseng had lingered, but that was normal. But instead of approaching Heidegger with "Turk business" the slant eyed man in Continental garb had approached Reeve. The Suit had been surprised when the Turk had addressed him in a language he hadn't used for years. The words had been simple, and he'd nearly parroted them in shaken Continental, so great was his surprise. The Turk's hand closing over his wrist, the narrowing of those empty black eyes, all had been warning enough to still Reeve's tongue. So he'd followed as instructed, Tseng turned sharply away from the elevator, taking path to the Shinra building's fire escape stairway. The sniggers of Scarlet carried well, certainly there would be talk... When Reeve made a token protest Tseng had tightened the grip on Reeve's wrist. With a yalp of shock Reeve had been pulled around a corner, the sounds of laughter and wagging executive tongues were quickly forgotten.

Tseng had opened the door, and once Reeve was clear had closed it.

"Walk."

Again, Reeve had followed his orders, much to his discomfort Tseng had followed a mere two steps behind. The third bend down, when nothing more hostile than silence and dust bunnies had assailed him, Reeve had been gathering his courage to protest. That protest had dribbled between his slack lips and soundlessly died.

"Surprised?" One leg was crossed over the other, Rufus' hanging foot drummed a silent tune on the empty air. He didn't bother to turn, stared over the rail and focused on the other wall. "Even Vice President's need their escapes. Mr. Shinra's idea of escapism is too... physical for my taste." With a grimace of disgust Rufus stood. The white tail of his long coat brushed the battered edges of the box which had served as his seat.

He always wore white now, white on white, a long flowing coat was draped over the rest of his attire. The illusion it gave was that of a robe more than anything else.

"I've been down lurking down here for years, between playing at Mr. Shinra's lap dog, and pursuing my own agenda." With a wry grin the young man turned to consider the completely shocked head of urban development. "I'd like that report now."

"Wh... what?"

"The one you weren't going to give to the President, because you value your life and listened to Tseng a while back. The one that the President would find so very.. disturbing. That's the report I'd like, and not some boring piddling details on mako reactor modifications, you can give it to me now, if you'd like."

The grim, silent Turk at his back told Reeve that despite Rufus' civil tone this was no light request. There was not like, no if you please. It was a cold blooded order, and the presence of a cold blooded murder at his back told Reeve that he better damn well like giving that report.

"Um... I... ah..."

Letting his eyes thin into mere slits Rufus Shinra cocked his head to the side, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. The tap of the boy's foot against the cement floor had a faint metallic ring to it. Perhaps he was wearing steel toed boots like the Turks on duty wore? The flowing white trench coat obscured everything and that metallic note was chillingly similar to a gun's safety being pulled.

That simile, and the no nonsense glare of death Rufus was favoring him coaxed Reeve to gather his nerve and just start talking. Eventually he'd say the right thing? Right?

X

Arms clasped behind his back, he walked, forgoing the rail that he'd clung to so many times in his childhood. The tail of his coat brushed the dirty floor with every step, and was well on it's way to acquiring a grey skin. Rufus descended, Tseng followed, a half step behind. They went down a handful of turns in companionable silence. Neither really needed to seak as they both were occupied. Heir considered his actions, Reeve's reactions, and Tseng... Tseng dwelled upon other things.

"For your first time, I will say not bad, only that."

Miniscule praise if it came from another man. Coming from the Truk it was the highest of compliments. Rufus smiled, not bothering to turn his head to assure Tseng' of it's presence. It wasn't needed, Tseng was a man who rarely needed reassurance.

"Thank you, Tseng."

"You're welcome, Rufus-sama."

"You're getting soft." Rufus teased, this time turning so that the Turk could see the edge of his grin. On such things as humor and jokes Tseng needed much reassurance for the Turk could still be baffled by the subtleties of Continental humor. "When'd you start calling me _sama?_ "

"When it became appropriate for me to do so. Such is the driving force of proper lingual emphasis."

Rolling his eyes the young Shinra sighed. " _Wutian_ emphasis."

"As it should be." Tseng countered coolly.

"You're rather sensitive for a Wutia, aren't you?" Rufus growled, a little nettled by his guards' reply.

"Alas, the curse of my father's blood."

Rufus stopped at that, and with a groan turned to face Tseng. He stared into those familiar, slanted, eyes for a long moment. Tseng sobered up at his charge's suddenly somber turn, stiffening a little in response. At last, assured that he had Tseng's complete and undivided attention, the young Shinra heir spoke one last time.

"Tseng, no one ever uses the word _alas_ anymore."

Thinking that this was yet another one of Rufus' stabs at humor and that he was the butt of the joke, the Turk scowled.

"Clean yourself up, it's inappropriate for a lord to have filth on his person."

Rufus only smoothed the front of his coat; the move was ineffective in dislodging the gathered dust. Oblivious -or perhaps indifferent- to the state of his coat, the young Shinra only smiled. Then without a word he descended for one more turn and left the stairway. For once Tseng did not have to rush to catch up. While not predictable, his lord was at least considerate enough to give a few miniscule warnings before he acted. The flick of a gaze, the tensing of the stance, then the slow, calculated steps which proclaimed his goal more firmly than any words...

Such were the subtleties of Rufus Shinra, the soon to be president of the Shinra company.


	15. Equilibrium:  Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the Equilibrium arch... there is one R rated chapter within, it will be marked via the chapter summery.

Equilibrium:

Intro: Expectations

_*Equilibrium: (N) To achieve a sense of balance, to regain (or maintain) mental, physical, situational, or physical balance._

Once upon a time he'd have lounged in his bed. Feet drumming a restless tune as he would adamantly refuse to consider the reality before him. Papers would have been scattered amongst pillows, his chin would have found a perch on one arm, and the other would have been thrown over his eyes. He would have sighed, and moaned, and groaned, whining without words at the still figure who stood a respectful distance away.

It was a show, free, and there was some dubious amusement to the whole.

Once the minor entertainment factor had passed the figure would step forward and gather the scattered pages. Neatly, so very nearly they would have been stacked, and both papers and person would seem to magically appear at his side.

"Enough of this, it is growing late."

"I don't want to!"

A childhood ago he’d have rolled away at the unwanted reminder to duty and work in general. He'd burrow his head under the pillow, pull the covers over that, and hunker down against the coming attack.

With a weary sigh the retreat and exposure would begin, Rufus crawling away, squirming from pillow to pillow, the annoyed Turk grimly coming up behind and striping those protections away, swearing in a tongue few bothered to recall. Sometimes a pillow would be thrown, once the blankets had been tossed over the annoyed Wutia and a mad dash out the door had been made. He'd made it three feet before being bodily picked up and dragged back to those detested pages. The anger that had flickered in Tseng's eyes that night had been enough to tell Rufus not to dare that again.

Tseng hadn't even had to yell at him, the glare as he was set down before his work was reprimand enough.

"Necessity is cruel, but cruelty is the heart of life. Now get to work."

Wutia saying done the Turk would cross his arms over his chest and go into his brooding watch mode. With a wince Rufus would knuckle under the Turk's orders and with that grim presence at his back he'd dedicate himself to his studies.

Little wonder he had never failed _anything_ academically speaking. A Turk in the academy's study hall would have done wonders, and Rufus had even toyed with the idea of sending Tseng down there just for laughs. Considering the serious, honor-obsessed Turk though, Rufus eventually nixed the plan. Being trapped on guard duty surrounded by fifty brats that he didn't dare threaten –much less kill- would put Tseng into one of his legendary rages. Not wanting to be on the brunt of one of those, Rufus only indulged the idea as a fantasy.

And like childhood, even fantasy was forsaken, except when he was bored out of his mind that was.

Today was one of those rare bored days. The grind of work was wearying to the point of numbness. Arms crossed, he set his chin on the makeshift pillow of forelimb and had let his mind drift.

One of the final essay's he'd ever have to write for Lit and he was suffering writers block. Life wasn't fair! He'd already done and turned in all his work for the company, and now, at long last he was facing an unbeatable foe. It wasn't due tomorrow, but it would gnaw upon him for the next five days, at least. A flaw however, is the ultimate sin to the perfectionist. The lapse on his part would not break plans, or nations, or even cost the company a cent, but it would infringe upon expectations.

The fact that they were his, and no others, didn't help much.

With a sigh Rufus turned to consider the clock. It was twelve o-clock now, the last time he'd glared at the clock it had been ten. Time certainly jerked around whilst crawling. He rubbed at smarting eyes and gave in with a sigh. One click, and drag of the mouse and he save all his work, another click and the computer was shut down for the night…

Or rather; for the morning.

While honesty wasn't a company policy, it was his. At least to those who mattered. With a yawn he pushed away from the table small desk he kept in his bedroom. It was definitely time to go to bed, sleep was overdue and he had to be up at six anyways…

His legs ached, the kind of tingling fiery pain that meant he'd been sitting far too long. Still the Shinra heir managed to drag himself in the general direction of the bed. With a sigh he collapsed into it, and for a while blessed oblivious came over him. Not drug given blackness, or alcoholically induced slumber that dovetailed the euphoria given by a strong drink... this was just the obsidian form of pure exhaustion, and he embraced it. It folded over him, stealing first color, then senses, and for a while he slept.

X

With a metallic wail the alarm clock wordlessly screeched that the hour had come. Moaning, the Vice President rolled over on one arm and threw the nearest weapon on hand. Chocobo feathers hidden within their soft fabric sheathing hit metal with a thump that was soundless. Considered the backdrop of racket which emanated from that little alarm clock, no wonder the hit was silent. The whole of it would fall off his nightstand with a satisfying clatter any second now...

Save that gravity should have played its hand by now. Rufus knew that whatever the enthusiasm for the event he harbored, it always came too swift for him to appreciate the drop and fully register the impact.

As if sensing his anxiety the crash came, one second too late. His sluggish mind jolted awake via the surge of adrenaline.

Something was wrong...

Eyes which had been scrunched up now flared open. He pulled the comforter aside, and lunged to the left. Though all but blind this _was_ his room. He didn't need to see to know where everything was.

Clearly, whoever else was in here, didn't need to see either. Rough hands closed over his own, stopping him as he wrenched open the drawer that held a small hand gun. He had -and would- never sleep armed, but the weapons' close proximity was something of a comfort.

With AVALANGE so prominent, terrorists carted around as heroes by the impoverished and desperate populace, it seemed prudent to at least have a weapon on hand at all times. A hands' span away was too far away to pull the trigger, he learned, even as the hands that were clamped over his tightened their grip and he was dragged off the bed.

He hit the center of his bedroom with an undignified thud. Lashing out at the man whose presence he felt at his back Rufus was rewarded with the sense of impact. Whoever he hit though didn't even grunt in pain though.

 _Damn, whoever this is, they're good_...

That or the fact he was lying on his stomach killed the force behind the kick. With a growl Rufus twisted himself to his feet, and was attacked form the front for his efforts. A body slammed into him, nearly knocking him back onto the bed. He grappled with his foe, found them to be about his strength. The fact his was barefoot, and sweaty, compiled with the fact that his floor was made of polished steel was going to make him the loser in this fight though. He braced himself and felt his feet going out under him.

Finally, desperation spurred him to forgo pride.

"Nation!"

A placid meow made Rufus turn his head. To his shock he could see Dark Nation, or rather 'Nation's eyes. They were wide, and shedding a dull azure haze on black fur and curling whiskers. Rufus could almost see Nation's head tilted to the side, the feline's expression unconcerned.

_But nation only trusts T-_

The thought was blasted out of him when his opponent twisted a bit, and turned the latent energy of their dead lock into a throw. Staggering over his own two feet Rufus slammed into the wall. An ornament from above bonked him on the head. Shaking off the hit, struggling to gather his breath, Rufus turned on his attacker, eyes wide.

"Who the hell are you?" He gasped.

Silence was his answer, and another lunge. But this time, he was ready. One flick of a switch and light flooded the room. Light as intense as the sun, his attacker was revealed to be a slender form swathed in black close fitting attire. A black featureless mask had been snapped over the features, but a few thin strands of red fluttered on the air as whoever it was moved.

Reaching blindly or the first thing that felt heavy Rufus closed his fingers over something square and thick. He whipped it around as one would a sword, and smashed it against the head of his attacker.

The man crashed into him. They both went down, but when the Shinra had gathered himself enough to stand his attacker remained little more than a still pool of limbs and fabric.

 _Dead or merely unconscious?_ Rufus didn't know, but he didn't dare pretend that this wasn't anything but an act. He also didn't dare to move. For there was another man. Clad the same, with a similar mask, this was the man that had dragged him from his bed. Dark Nation sat at the black clad person's feet, tail lightly thumping, feline expression as content as it could be.

One hand reached down, Rufus tensed, the mad plan of dodging to the side made his limbs tense. But his assailant did not go for a weapon; the man only petted the panther-hound.

A purr cut through the charged quiet. Then, with a minute nod the man in black turned on his heel and left.

Left alone, with the unconscious man at his feet Rufus looked at the retreating figure. Confusion made him numb. He should recognize the gestures, the figure. But in his shock he couldn't even think.

With a mew Nation padded out of the bedroom and made a stop into the tiled room that served as Rufus' kitchen. He left, and then returned. Passing the distance of his journey on soundless paws. Eyes wide, an empty food bowl in his mouth, Nation let out a little purr.

Which, Rufus realized as his took Nation's food bowl and followed the feline into the kitchen, only went to show that if you didn't think for yourself and act for yourself, others would do so for you.

Even if that "act" you were forced into was something as simple as filling a hungry animal's bowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The definition for equilibrium was taken from an old Webster's dictionary... the edition date was removed as well as the first few pages... and the last few.. it's an old dictionary, regardless I can't give official copyright info, only a sorta credit.


	16. Equilibrium:  Typical Morning

Equilibrium

Chapter 2

A Typical Morning

The phone was ringing, and he let it. It wasn't his, and he sure as hell wasn't paying the bill for it. So he'd let the owner rack up the charges with every ring.

Nursing a cup of coffee in his hands he lounged in his work clothes. The clear –if ominous- notes of a villainous theme hummed in the back ground. Setting down his cup he reached for the sugar, added a spoonful of sweetener, then decided that some cream was in order. As he added this and that to his morning cup he listened with amusement as the song played on.

"You have a rather juvenile taste in music," Rufus noted. Listening as a few more bars of _the demonic winged seraph_ bleeped out. The phone was positively hopping by now. With a sigh he saved it from going over the edge of the table, set it at the small dining table's center. Moments' later it was shivering and hopping towards the edge of the table. It would take fifteen minutes to reach the edge again, that gave the young vice president plenty of time for simple conversation.

The bound black clad man winced at the VP's criticism, and he should have. Considering the song was from some little kiddie anime that was five years out of date.

And the song wasn't as bad as say… a ring tone from the now defunct Pick-Me-Mon series. But it was pretty close.

"You aren't going to tell me anything, are you? I remove the gag to allow you to talk, and here you sit, silent and resolute." Stirring the metal spoon Rufus waited, no reply came from the masked man, but he hadn't expected one.

A wind chime made a noise that was supposedly akin to the tink-a-ling of metal upon porcelain. So the young Shinra amused himself with his artifice melody made the predictable gyrations of his right hand.

It was, he decided, not all that soothing. He'd have to reprimand Elena for that tidbit of bad advice later on. With a chink he struck the edge of the cup, shaking a few drops of precious caffeine back into the cup. He dared a sip, and finding the texture just right, nursed the cup in his hands and watched his odd guest. The black clad man seemed obsessed with pulling off the best statue impersonation Midgar had ever seen.

"I imagine that the person who's waiting for you to report is getting a tad pissed off by now. I should probably answer the phone, don't you think?"

That response awarded him a small twitch. Not much of a response, but enough of one that Rufus flashed the man a weary smile.

"I'll do that." Rufus assured the man, "right after breakfast. I'll be back in a bit, don't wait up."

A wordless, if somewhat muffled, –socks were such wondrous gags, Rufus had learned, especially the unclean variety- howl of anger made Rufus raise an eyebrow. "Energetic, are we? I don't want some nosy secretary cutting you loose by accident. Cleaning up after a not-so-professional killer would be quite a pain." Running a hand through his hair Rufus considered the problem for a while. His captive audience, having nothing better to do, glared impotently up at him. "I guess immobilizing you would be the order of the day, luckily for you and me both I won't need to use a tazer to keep you in line. Nation, sit on this idiot's lap, would you?"

With an evil purr Nation padded into the tiled room, his claws clicking on the polished steel floor.

The masked man let out a little whimper.

"Have fun," the Shinra heir encouraged, a teasing tug of the panther-hound's tentacle informed Nation that Rufus was going on his way. The purr on Nation's part told that the feline was pleased with his "have a good day" toy.

Pulling his white coat over his snow hued suit Rufus made his way out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. He was confronted and comforted by the usual white wash and steel decor around him. Considering that this was a company breakfast Rufus decided that he should make an effort to look his best. The traditional white on white, vest, shirt, and pant combination lost its touch of intimidation without a trench coat to top it off. So he made a quick dash to his room and plucked it down from the usual hanger. A moment and struggle later the bulky garment was on, and the blonde trotted to the bathroom to consider his reflection. A soft sigh came out as he saw yet again that he was plagued with the dreaded "trench head", it was in some ways worse than his daily dose of bed head.

Well, only one way to fix that…

A loud thump of the chair falling over and a loud meow of amusement hardly put a dent in the young Shinra's activities. He came out a few moments later, lazily running a fine toothed comb through the most unruly patch as he headed for the front door.

"Have a good day, Nation." Rufus called over his shoulder. "And don't eat the hostage while I'm gone."

Dark Nation let out a little whine at that. Snatching up his assailant's phone as he went out the door, Rufus had to admit, you couldn't have everything the way you wanted it.


	17. Equilibrium, First step towards the edge

Equilibrium

A first step towards the edge

Balance could be garnered in confidence. Surety, born of routine, could encourage a pale kind of confidence. Or so it seemed. Confidence in stability the sophistry inclined called it. But the hard truth of the matter was that the only things that came from route was repetition, resignation, and the mundane. Confidence linked to these three was the poorest kind, and had a habit of falling apart at a moment's notice.

Phone humming, a discordant hiss from his coat pocket, Rufus ignored it all. He sedately brushed the crumbs from his morning repast off the table, then seeing an errant glob of cream cheese on the edge of a paper he fetched a tissue and whipped it off. An absent clench of his hand and one throw insured that the mess was neatly – and to hell if the way he'd done so was juvenile!- put in its proper place.

The metal top of his trash can soundlessly spun as the projectile his it on the edge. One fall, than a rise, and the canisters well-oiled top swung mutely back and forth. He waited, in silence as eventually ceased its sedate rocking and went still. Only then, when he could spend a moment basking in the still and silent of his white that was his office, did Rufus pull the phone from his pocket. Large enough to sit in his palm, the cell phone was made of a sleek black plastic, reminiscent of the heavy plastic that sheathed cars. In his hand it shivering, buzzing in futile fury. He rolled it over, considered the familiar white and red logo on the phone's glossy back, and then let his lips quirk into a smile.

At his touch the phone opened up with a quiet click. The sound was like that of a safety being pulled, crisp, metallic, and deadly.

"Shinra Inc, executive branch, this is the vice president's secretary speaking."

The reply to his falsehoods was prompt, the speakers' voice unfamiliar to a young man who could flawlessly place a voice to a face, and a face to a name.

"I doubt that."

Quick to catch his feet Rufus met the speaker's self-congratulatory chuckle with a bark laugh of his own. "Then you're smarter than the men who came visiting earlier." Letting his voice soften, he smothered what little amusement it harbored and dropped the smile. "I don't like being attacked by my own guards."

"We needed you gathered."

The response was not apologetic, nor very enlightening.

"You don't seem concerned for the man left behind." Rufus countered.

The attempt to shake information out of the mysterious caller fell flat. All that his statement garnered his was harsh laugh. Coupled with that bitter sound was an equally bitter truth.

"There was no man left behind. Not a living one. If he's a true Turk he'll die before coming back in shame."

"Then you're a Turk?"

"That's something you should be able to deduce on your own."

"What do you want with me?" Rufus hissed.

"I've already indicated that." The speaker countered, meeting the young heir's anger with cool indifference. "And I don't repeat myself."

"Really…" Rufus pressed his lips into a thin line. By doing so he was unable to say half the come backs he ached to unleash. Swallowing hard he choked down the harsh words, the vehemence born, venom slicked replies that he could have given. "You think you know everything then? That's a fool's mistake and I know enough to say that fools don't make it into the Turks. Or if they do, it's only to serve as target practice."

"And here I thought Shinra blood had deluded," There was a creek, as the person on the other line moved a bit. "-but perhaps it was merely the senior's brain."

Holding to his silence Rufus grimly pulled himself from his chair, quietly paced in front of his office, he made three circuits before he decided. He approached the window, marked the flight of the daily news 'copter. Every day, rain or shine, the news helicopter which swept over Midgar's upper plate. It started its early morning run by doing a sweep by the building. More than one early chat between Rufus and Tseng had been cut short by the whirl of blades and the scream of the engine.

He waited, watched its approach and listened. Not wanting to give away the name of his game Rufus made a noise as if offended and moved to keep the bastard talking.

"Who are you?"

"That's unimportant, but the fate of the man whom serves me should be goad enough for you to listen to everything I say. And you should listen, and listen very carefully, young man. Not only his life, but yours too, bares the black mark."

"Clearly _someone_ is overly fond of mid-evil verse." Rufus countered. "You haven't said a thing I hear every day of my life, Turk. I've been dodging bullets since I was five."

"I don't take back talk, not from a Turk, not from some bastard son of Shinra." The voice on the other end became heated.

The whirl of blades cutting through the air and the scream of an approaching engine _from the other line_ made Rufus crack a smile. East to west, the primordial pattern was to be fulfilled. From a race of the day bound it was habit to follow the sun's path, even when the sun was nowhere in sight.

So went the helicopter's path.

"Then, don't." Rufus countered, and with that he hung up.

X

"Loyalty, if you call this loyalty than I find your definition lacking." Setting down the phone, the blue clad Turk set his cold blue gaze on his underling. "He's shown you none at this juncture. I hate to say it, boy, but you've just pinned your future on an irresponsible  
brat."

"Do not underestimate Rufus, sir." With that, Tseng folded himself into the seat opposite of his superior. "He's planning something."

"Truly? Some half-baked wild scheme of searching the building is it? I wouldn't expect anything less from a Turk his age much less a civilian…"

"Do not underestimate him, others have, Turk and executive alike, and they've paid for it."

"Unblooded to boot… Worthless…" Still grumbling the leader of the Turks considered the list and the few names on it.

As if all was well, Tseng carried on as was his norm. The Turk folded his hands together and set them on his bent knee and considered the air before him with utmost gravity.

All the while his superior cursed and then with a sigh dispersed his anger and put in the last number on the list. An answering machine met his calls, and wise enough to not leave a message the older Turk hung up before the machine's tinny voice could pick up.

It was in the midst of those calls that they were interrupted, first by the knock on the Turk's door, then once more by Rexes, the Turk who was sent to answer. The young man was silent –a rare event encouraged by the death threat in Tseng's eyes- as he approached. The only signal that he had news was the fact that he lingered long enough for his shadow to brush the desk. That "touch" was enough, raising his head the aging Turk looked up from his latest failed attempt to get one person to pick up.

"Visitor, sir."

Only that, two words, unimportant, insignificant. With a snort to indicate his disgust at the triviality of it all, the elder Turk waved a dismissive hand.

"Get rid of whoever it is," with a frown the leader of the Turk's amended the order. "-permanently if you think security has been compromised."

"Let him in." Tseng ordered.

Caught between superior A and superior B, both with contradictory orders, the young Turk swore. To defy either of them was to get shot point blank in the near future. Perhaps even in the immediate future. Passion overrode reason and the young blond Turk merely snapped to attention, still swearing under his breath, and remained rock still.

At the elder Turk's raised eyebrow Rexes went pale and let the profanity die mid syllable.

"Let me guess, the visitor is clad in a yellow jump suit, overlarge hat, and is a few inches shorter than myself, with a husky voice?" Tseng prompted. "The visitor is trotting out some sort of story about the plumbing?"

"Y… yes… sir." The youth squeaked.

"Very good, bring Rufus in immediately." Tseng ordered.

Both eldest and youngest Turk looked up at him in complete shock.

"I told you, Rufus Shinra is not to be underestimated. Shatter and distort his world, and he will catch himself quickly. He's done it so often I seriously think he's part cat."

Gnawing on his lower lip, the elder Turk considered. Then, with a curt nod, the old man agreed.

"Bring him in." Veld ordered in his age worn voice.


	18. Toeing the Edge

Equilibrium

Toeing to the edge

Without preamble the boy was let in. Clad in the gaudy yellow garb that marked him as a member of the shit and piss cleaners of the company, Rufus Shinra entered.

Standing, the aged Turk nodded. Yet in the world of power and politics the minuscule could –and regularly did- mean much. In less than a second he had aimed for a high mark, and the hesitant nod on Rufus' part indicated that he'd attained it. By refusing to be subservient, and wisely refraining from taking the role of superior, Veld of the Turks had put himself in a class Rufus was ill equipped to handle.

That of equals.

"Please, Mr. Shinra, be seated."

The ever so slight stiffening of the boy's shoulders told Veld that he'd erred. Somewhere, somehow, he'd made a mistake in his opening move. As he mused over what that could have been Tseng stood, abandoned his seat, and the look he cast the yellow clad child was clearly an invitation. Another nod on Rufus' part was clearly a reply.

Whatever passed between them could have been cast in Wutia cipher for all Veld understood it. But something had passed, some silent communication, and though comprehension was beyond him the knowledge that something was afoot was not. So, like a well-trained Turk, he took notes and kept his peace.

"Mr. Shinra, it's an honor." Again, the faint shiver as control slipped around the edges, the muscles of the shoulders tensed unconsciously. Veld smiled as the truth hit him. Such a surprising yet simple truth... Then, still grinning he leaned forward and extended a hand. Rufus took it, more by instinct than because he felt any warmth for the old man before him. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced before. I know you, of course, but you've never had the honor of meeting me. I ran the Turks when Tseng was about your age..."

"With all due respect, Veld,-" The blond gave the name no emphasis. It was just a nominative to the boy, not a title that inspired terror. Veld didn't know whether the child's indifference should grieve him or relieve him. "-my time is limited. I've got less than an hour, and I'd rather not spend my time listening to you reminisce."

"Blunt." Veld murmured.

"By necessity. I've no duplicate to take my place today and I'm expected at the helicopter pad in forty minutes. Company business, you understand. So don't waste your time and mine codling me, or building up to the relevant. Just get to the point."

Tseng coughed at that. Veld snapped his gaze up from the boy and considered the somber man who had spent a sizable amount of his career shadowing the boy.

Shadowing, or had he been wasting his time as the Wutia's critics had claimed? Had Tseng burned up his most useful years of his life playing the Shinra's babysitter? When the boy's mother had died and Alex's indifference towards his wife had been made public Tseng's position had become precarious. He was guardian to a boy who no one cared for, protector to final scion of a bloodline that was unwanted and unloved. Add to that that the elder Shinra was slowly going mad via paranoia... With the slow creeping madness seeping in the father's brain, and with only a child in the wings, Veld wondered as to why Tseng would even bother.

Shaking his head, Veld dropped his gaze, considered the child with steel sharp blue eyes. He must have made an odd sight, grey and old, bend and stooped, the steady progress of arthritis had made his knuckles bulge slightly, and he'd grown a thick beard to obscure the lines of his face. Over the years, to deflect suspicion, he made for himself a facade of age and weakness. The conflicting play of protein on protein locked in the core of twining twin spirals had been his undoing. A small flaw of the genes added to the steady pace of time had made the facade closer to reality than he would have liked.

"You've been given high recommendations from a man who'll lose his life if he's wrong. Your innate skills of subterfuge, deception, and combat have been noted." The last came out with in a wry tone. "But my question is, are you good enough?"

"Good enough for what?" Rufus countered. "It seems unreasonable to say I'm good enough for a task if I don't know what that task is."

"Fair enough." Veld smiled, recalling years ago a pale, black haired, half bastard Turk had said those -or words so much the same that the difference didn't bother him- very same words to him almost a decade ago. "More than fair."

Silence stretched between them as the Turk considered. Rufus remained still, silent. The only motion the boy allowed himself was to let his eyes flick to the clock. The heir's lips thinned into a line as he considered the time. Whatever conclusions he boy drew he kept them to himself, remained an outward picture of stoicism.

"It's a small matter of betrayal, really. This never should have involved you, but my source informed me that a shakeup in the Turk power base would disturb you greatly."

"For a man who flippantly says that failure means death, I'd hardly expect compassion." Rufus snapped. His pale features twisting under the influence of a mute snarl. "Don't treat me like a child. This isn't for my benefit, it's for yours. No one does something for nothing, there's always a cost."

"Well said." Veld murmured. "Altruism isn't my reason, let's say we have a mutual cause for the moment, and that's all that matters. Your reference," the old Turk's eyes flicked to Tseng then back to Rufus, "informed me you have little love of your biological father. I'll openly admit I'm exploiting that. I'm using you. In turn, I'll give you a chance to make him bleed. With your willing cooperation and this missions success I'll be given the tools to protect the current head of the Turks. Fair enough?"

"You're asking me to turn on my company." Rufus breathed, the young man's eyes went wide in disbelief.

"It's your father's only weakness." Veld explained with a shrug. "Trust me, I've searched, and that's it. Still, you'll get your satisfaction, isn't that enough?"

"On _my_ company." Rufus snapped. "Make him bleed?" The boy barked out a hard laugh. "You'll draw _my_ blood and his."

"It's the manner of blood, really." Veld clarified. "For you, right now, the company is only a shell, it's not your life. Think of it as a rap on the knuckles for you... and a knife through the heart for him."

Silence met Veld's statement; the boy looked over the Turk, beyond him. With unblinking eyes he considered the space through Veld most intently. After a long span a shrill beeping shattered the quiet. Rufus snapped out of his thoughts with a grimace and rolled back a long white sleeve. He touched the metal side of the device, and it went still.

"I'll consider it." Was all the young Shinra said, pushing off the desk he got to his feet.

"Not good enough," Veld snapped. "Tseng-"

""What, you're going to kill me now?" With a laugh Rufus shook his head. "I'm your vice president, Turk, you want some of my father's underlings… say Heidegger, to get the company? You don't dare, because the first thing Heidegger would do would be to kill every single Turk in the company. I know Turks, you won't turn on your own, you won't condone every single one of your number to certain death without one hell of a good cause. So, I believe we have something of an impasse."

Face turning crimson with fury, Veld's hands clenched, as if he were holding back his rage by shear physical effort; or perhaps, in his anger, he was closing those thick dry hands on someone's throat.

Turning to the man who had just been ordered to kill him, Rufus flashed the Wutia Turk a smile.

"I expect to be briefed on a need to know basis."

A nod, only that, and a twitch that might have been a suppressed smile, despite remaining mute Tseng's "yes sir," went without saying.


	19. Chapter 19

Equilibrium

Threshhold

 

It's the fancy of children to embrace the imaginary. Holding to ideas –not ideals, for ideals are the hallmark of the budding adult, and have no place in the minds of true children- the fanciful, the strange, the bizarre, those ideas are –for the most part- uncensored. In the mundane play of dying light, the blend of colors as the sun passes and night descends they are delighted to see fanciful colored chocobos, and tufts left by unnamable something's that glimmer and change so slowly as to be unseen.

Reality and life have a habit of crushing those images from the mind. It takes effort to reclaim that sense of wonder, and bound by the mundane which we call "the everyday grind" sometimes the imagining falls away, never to be reclaimed.

Arms thrust into his coats pocket, Rufus stared at the blank grey sky. Seeing it neither as a blank slate or a screen of smog, he drew a deep breath and tasted the familiar flavoring of grit and chemical. The sky was grey, he noted, it was a grey day today. Tonight, when the Mako reactors belched forth flickering sheets of green fire, Midgar would be surrounded by pillars of its own making. Pillars etched in the life blood of the planet would give the black starless span an emerald tint. Rufus would hardly notice the surreal illumination. Unless boredom pressed hard on him, Rufus wouldn't bother to look out his suite's window.

But the windows would remain open a crack, and the green light would seep in, and it's familiar luminescence would sooth him to slumber.

When his phone rang Rufus flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

The voice that replied was deep, not the way a soto voice thrums the lower octaves with a seductive turn, but the echoing deepness that puts images of distance and darkness to the mind. The faint hiss of static hinted at a voice distorter. Either that or a very bad connection "The helicopter is running late. Expect a change in pilot but don't respond to it."

"Normally when someone starts a conversation it's with a "Hello", or "Good Morning"." Rufus noted blandly. As he talked he twined the leash in his free hand. When his 'advisor' fell a silence that was typical to the person Rufus expected was on the other line the Shinra heir sighed. Silence stretched until patience broke, as the saying went. Seeing the other end wasn't going to look at -much less hold up- his end of the conversation Rufus wrapped the thick leather leash around his arm and tightened his grip. "But I appreciate the warning, all the same."

Dark Nation grunted at the small tug, and sent an inquisitive glance over his shoulder wasn't even met. Flicking an ear to indicate his ire the panther-hound's blue eyes skimmed the ground around him, half expecting an ambush.

"If you had watched what you said and agreed you could be doing this with more resources, you know."

"Criticism?" Rufus murmured. He stared into the grey, his ears catching the familiar bone shaking thrum of mechanical blades slashing through the sky. A familiar black copter was coming. It's flight bobbed up and down, yet despite that it was making a steady dive down. Clearly, either by accident or design, the helicopter was going to descend upon the pad rather than skim over the runway.

"It is allowed."

"Then, when we have the time, I'll answer your criticism with some of my own."

Nation's eyes followed the unblinking stare of his master's, and seeing the descending box with it's bladed top the feline's ears slicked back. Feline features contorted in fear, a fear that wasn't soothed by the fact that Master gave the leash an imperious tug.

"I'll be in touch." The voice promised, then with a click the phone in his hand went dead.

As if that was a cue -or perhaps an inspiration- there came a click from the cement coated landing pad. Four clicks to be precise.

"Don't you dare." Rufus hissed.

Dark Nation didn't even flick an ear to indicate he'd heard. In mute defiance he rolled on the balls of his paws to dig his claws into the cement. When the Master began the long drag to the box with blades Dark Nation would be ready for him.

X

Camera's flashed, light burned his eyes even as it let a searing darkness behind. Still he smiled into it, smiled into the searing storm and babbled questions. Their words rolled over him, only the sound of his name caught his ears, but the frantic tone it was hollered in made him shake it off. Ignoring questions as he would have ignored a small rain shower, he made his way through the flashing light. Black pillars covered his sides, and closed ranks upon his trail. The parallel lines of their path drove him forward even as his progress closed the path behind. Turks and SOLDIERs were standing shoulder to shoulder, making a path for him. Grimly they shoved back the enthusiasts, the haters, the paparazzi, the cut a path for him.

Predetermined of course, for Rufus was never allowed to make his own path. So he strode through this pale, manufactured, storm armed only with a charming smile and lazy wave. Nation's claws were out, and his tentacle cut thought the air so fast it hissed, but that was just proof of the obvious. Nation wasn't found of anybody, and he wasn't shy in proving it. The panther-hound served as Rufus' foil. Even as the human smiled and sauntered about the feline was a picture of grim efficiency. Though trained well enough _not_ to drag his master to the blockish concrete building, the feline's pace did encourage crisper pace.

Even their colors were opposing. Checking a grin at that thought Rufus decided that Nation was more than earning a nibble of cat nip for his good behavior this afternoon.

Questions came and went, a dull din on his ears. Questions were easily ignored, however. They only served as a minor inconvenience, and as a Shinra he was well equipped to deal with minor inconveniences. The cares and concerns of the normal were distant, like how the rain is distant when one is snug and warm with a sturdy roof over the head. Tugging his trench coat around him, Rufus mounted the steps leading into the military compound. He nodded his greeting and gratitude to the two Turks that flanked the doors.

Nation growled at them, but that was to be expected.

The young Shinra scrittched Dark Nation's head, a silent assurance that everything was alright, and to that Nation snorted as if to say everything wasn't fine and he wasn't going to be soothed by a measly ear rub. At the threshold, between the worlds of "his public image" and his real station, Rufus hesitated. You never really get a chance to appreciate a storm. To look over one's shoulder and say "I survived that" whilst thunder crashed and cloud's coiled at one's back. Brushing off Nature's impotent spit from one's shoulder, as Gaia raged at its forced leaving, you never got the chance to really laugh in the planet's face. No, you either were bound in a world within this one that was distance from the elements or were subverted and awed by its power.

Turning, from the doors to face the crowd, Rufus Shinra smiled into the storm. And so smiling, passed the distance from one world to the other.

 


	20. A leap

Equlibrium

A leap

Reality was hard, the grey of congealed sun baked earth. It bore scars, marks left behind before it had hardened. Something as whimsical as the touch of a child or the indifferent oblivious foot of the passerby left a mark. Later, once congealed, cracks were hard to make, but once there they appeared the smallest flaws were disastrous.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Rufus snorted, more to clear his noise of the combined reek of piss and chemicals from his nose than to express his distaste. The room was bland, but considering he favored the Spartan style the starkness wasn't his complaint. The spider web flaws in a cement wall proclaimed an impact, the scent of chlorine and bleach alluded to a cover up. The evasion served as the heart of his complaint.

"Sir." Breaking the customary silence of his order, the Turk who had followed him from the crush cleared his throat. "We're going to be late."

Letting his eyes thin in distaste, the Shinra turned. He wasn't going to leave or follow the orders of this strange Turk. With a half step he put the break to his back, his eyes traced the path of flight starting from the point of impact.

"Mr. Vice President..."

"Shut up." Rufus snapped. He traced the path with his eyes, then followed it a few steps. How convenient that the most logical course of flight was cast in darkness. Reaching for the wall, he smirked, the military mind was so uniform. Switches were at every intersection, one designated to light each path. With a lazy motion of his hand the blond would flip the switch and the path ahead of him would be illuminated.

A dull clunk told him that something was broke. The soft caress of wires against his hand alluded to... to something more than a mere shot fuse. Despite his attempt the path ahead remained stubbornly dark.

" _Mr. Vice President_."

Exasperation, worse, a lack of respect, was seeped into those words. To that insult Rufus turned, his lips pressed into a thin hard line, his blue eyes glinting. Head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed in distaste, the Turk met the young man's glare with indifference.

"You're not supposed to go that way." The black clad man's tone was reminiscent of one used for stupid children. Seeing the young Shinra's hands clench and maybe recalling that his Christmas bonus might be on the line if he pissed Rufus off, the man acquired a more conciliatory tone. "You're presence is needed in the main offices on the other side of the building."

"A rather long walk." Rufus countered.

"Blame the new pilot. He landed in the wrong runway."

At the young Shinra's answering smirk the black clad Turk frowned. But despite the intensity of the man's glare the young Shinra didn't bat an eye. Patience broke in less than five minutes. Ill grace and raw temper stained the cheeks of the Turk a ruddy hue.

"You aren't one of Tseng's men." Rufus noted.

Each word was forced between ground calcium and tight lips, still despite these impediments the Turk managed a semi-civil. "With all due respect, Mr. Vice President, we should hurry. We're going to be late."

"All right, I'll come along, but you'll have to excuse me if I walk with my eyes open."

X

The fat man graced him with a glare upon his arrival. As always the fat man was jammed behind a behemoth desk designed to intimidate. Yet exaggerated shows of power and mundane intimidation did nothing to obscure the obtuse truth. The fat man was fat, rather boulder-esk if truth be told. Amused that so much cellulite and congealed oils could even sit without oozing, the least powerful of the Shinra inner circle, nodded his greetings.

A grunt was the President's reply.

Fat man was hardly complimentary –and neo-AVALANCHE slang besides- but it was fitting. The moniker "Old man Shinra" just seemed too affectionate these days.

"Hello Rufus," One face broke out from the mass. It turned to regard his coming, and at least one pair of lips twisted into a smile of greeting. Comforted by the familiar sight of slanted eyes but made uncomfortable by their owner's open show of warmth, Rufus nodded in Reeve's direction. The head of Urban development winked, then turned back to the President.

"Going back to the topic, before the interruption," With those words the Fat man glared at his son, clearly telling all present exactly what the _interruption_ was, Alex Shinra pressed on. "I've gathered all of you to talk of the Avalanche infiltration in the company."

Those gathered were not so base as to be rabble. They were far too advanced to gasp at the revelation, but silence did fall, and into that silence Heidegger chortled. If Alexander Shinra was the "fat man", than Heidegger was his brother. Both men were round-tound, and while there were many physical differences between the two of them there was something in their manner that reminded a viewer of both when just looking at one.

"I can assure you, sir that we've found the primary opening in our defenses." Heidegger said, and at the last word his chuckle swelled into a harsh booming laugh.

So fat that his stomach jiggled while he laughed, Heidegger could have been a deranged Santa Claus. Disturbed by that image -Rufus was at best nominally Christian after all- the young heir checked a shudder at that thought. While Rufus' father nodded and encouraged Heidegger to continue the young man decided then and there that there would be no Christmas party this year.

Or, if there was, he would not be in attendance.

Alex allowed Heidegger have his chuckle, and when those fat rimmed eyes pressed into small slits it was to mutely tell the head of Midgar's military that it was time to move on to business. Time was money, and money a Shinra's lifeblood after all. Reeve let out a gap jaw yawn as the game of subtle finger pointing began. Heads of each department would doubtlessly blame one another once the fat man got to his point. The half Wutai wasn't interested in who did what, and why, he was the rare breed of executive that wanted a solution, not subtle snipping. Outsiders breaching the business weren't any of Reeve's concern. "Fresh blood" and "new opinions"-even controversial ones- were welcome in his eyes. He didn't consider that this "new blood" would spill old blood. Made oblivious by optimism it would never cross Reeve's mind that these people with controversial opinions would come to a board meeting with a bomb.

The line between radical thinking and terrorism was a blurry one, at best.

Still, Rufus had to check a yawn of his own as the recap dragged on. Why he _had_ to be summoned out of his nice, snug, dry, office to hear a grandiosely given report of the obvious was beyond him. For "concluding something" they were taking a long time to get to the point.

It was then, when his eyes were half closed and his attention wandering, that Heidegger sprung his surprise. And like an immature, sophomoric, magician the fat man's right hand did so with a obnoxious flourish. Pushing his chair back to stand Heidegger struggled to his feet, a cruel smile on his lips.

"These events point to disloyalty amongst the Turks." Heidegger announced, with a smile. "Only they have the wide base of expertise to precipitate these actions against Shinra."

 _That_ jolted Rufus wide awake, his eyes flared open at the words. All around him, from _all_ the people at the table, came a surge of surprise. Shock came in the form of a hard drawn breath or a babble of shock, and it took all of Rufus' willpower not to join in.

"And that is why you all are here." Alexander Shinra concluded. "We'll be investigating the Turk branch... most extensively. All of you have contacts with the Turks-" When Reeve opened his mouth to protest Alexander made one pudgy hand slash through the air. "Even acquaintanceship is damning Reeve. As such, when dealing with such a dangerous enemy, it would be disastrous if anything of our intention were to leak out. So, for as long as the investigation pends, I'll request that you remain upon the premises."

"When... when is it going to begin?" Rufus managed to force the words past a dry mouth.

"Even as we speak a squad of SOLDIERs are storming the Turk compound in the Shinra building." Heidegger replied, a wide smile on his face. "I imagine that that alone will be quite a shock for the Wuitain bastard."

Remembering the black clad man that had served as his escort, Rufus glared at his father. "There are Turks' _here-_ " He began.

"What Turks?" Alexander Shinra countered. The picture of cool composure, he laced his thick fingers over his paunch and speared his son with a look loaded with disdain. "There _are_ no Turks here, boy. Not anymore."

With infinite care and wide eyes the young Shinra sank into his chair, and for once there were no sneers, no finger pointing. Embroiled in anger and indignation at the fact that their personal rights were ruthlessly being stripped away, every executive was on their feet, protesting. Shoving his hands into his pocket Rufus fell back into the embrace of his chair. Spasmodically his hands clenched in the white sanctuary of his trench coat's pockets, he grasped for control and composure even as all those around him wallowed in their anger.

This scene -with executives towering over him roaring in anger- was reminiscent of one of his nightmares. Left impotent and powerless he would look up and see them all yelling and screaming as some vital thing came undone. His composure shattered, he'd shoot from his chair, his voice swelling to bring order, only to find his words lost due to their anger…

Save, that this wasn't a dream, and his composure didn't break. His left hand hurt as the edges of his cell phone dug in.

"You've got not right to shove me in some dingy little cell for the sake of _security_ measures!" Scarlet screamed. Her voice was shrill, and Rufus wasn't the only one to wince as she scaled the upper octaves effortlessly. "Damn it, I won't be caged in this stupid fort while you-"

"It seems as if I haven't made myself clear!" The President's voice was a roar, and it thundered effortlessly over the bickering of his subordinates. "You don't have a choice. None of you do. You'll stay here because _I'm_ ordering it-"

Another wave of protest rose, from those with families and those without. Now, even the placid seeming Hojo was protesting, and that protest was preceded by a wild screech. Arguments and logic were spewed into the morass of anger; his though were centered upon the fact that there were various experiments that wouldn't last a day without his attentions.

Civil rights -the head executives of Shinra were learning- were nothing but a fond delusion in the face of a dictator's whim.

With a grimace he shoved his cell phone down as far as it could go into his pocket, and with shaking hands flicked it open. Hidden in the depths of his trench coat his hands pressed on the key pad. All the while he was gathering his feet to join his voice with the protesters around him.


	21. Powerless

Equilibrium

Powerless

 

 

 

 

His hand ached, so he nursed the bruised in the whole, and brooded.

The scales of power tipped, and all the pieces fell into Alexander's eager hands without a whimper. Those who might have opposed him –for sentimental reasons of practical- lost all their strength and were to be marked for death. To add insult to injury all this had happened in one afternoon. Rufus sighed, and for the first time since sitting on the edge of his bed he looked up and actually saw the room which had been designated his "suite". The word cell might have been more accurate, save that the stark nature of his abode didn't bother him and there were no bars on his windows.

Granted the two SOLDIERS at his door debased him of the illusion that this was any other day, but out of all the executives of Shinra he was used to being mewed up.

If only this didn't feel so much like being grounded! At least the other executives didn't have that to bother them. Yes, they'd all been put under lock and key, but it was by a dictator. A power hungry authority who was this ruthless might have been a revelation to the lot of them but for most of them there wasn't a sense that they'd been violated. For the adults of Shinra Corporate this was the rude destruction of personal rights from a powerful outside force, not the close fisted blow across the face from father to son…

 _That_ stroll down memory lane wasn't pleasant, so he shelved it and absently massaged his wrist.

He should be grateful, for this time –unlike all the others- he wasn't alone.

With a loud yawn and grunt Dark Nation rolled over, paws reaching towards the ceiling, claws extended. Kneading nothing in particular, the panther-hound squirmed on his back, and then lolled his head to one side to give his master an inquiring glance. When Rufus didn't pick up on the silent invitation Nation mewed pitifully.

Pushing against the cot like bed, Rufus found his feet and limped to Dark Nation. He limped because his left leg still sore from where the SOLDIER had kicked him to "restrain" his "youthful enthusiasm". Through the pain the blond smiled, if enthusiasm was profanity than he'd earned that kick. It had been well worth a little pain to say what he'd actually thought of his father without raising deadly suspicion.

With a hiss the Shinra folded himself onto the floor, his white trench coat pooled around him as he sat. Nation's eyes widened with hope, and as his Master's hand descended to ruffle his fur the feline let out a contented purr. Murmuring nonsense words, drawing from both Continental and Wutia lingual, Rufus ignored the deadly claws that were playfully cutting through the air an inch in front of his nose. He brooded, and as he did so his continental mannerisms slipped a bit around the edges. His lips pressed into a line of distaste even while his eyes thinned to better consider the internal vistas that he was going to have to surmount.

With a curse Rufus surged to his feet. With an annoyed mew 'Nation reached out with a paw to stop him. Ignoring the panther-hound Rufus would have paced, but he didn't manage more than a step before the pain in his leg flared into agony. The traitorous limb buckled under the abuse it had endured and he hit the cement floor with bruising force. Leaping free from his pocket, the shattered cell phone skipped upon the ground as a smooth stone would skip across a lake's surface.

His phone –Turk issued- had been broken by his father's hand. The hand that had tried to shield his father's malovent gaze from the tool had been struck, and it was his mother's genes that had gifted him with such pale thin skin that made each bruise stand out and fade in a reluctant morass of color. From purple-esk black to sickly viridian than at last the collage would fade to a hue unlike and like his own. Save for the sickly taint of yellow which would be the most reluctant to withdraw…

If there was a benevolent force behind creation, call it the life stream, or the planet, or some divine being that his upbringing told him to call God, they must have been getting a laugh out of this.

The son of the most powerful man in the world, hurt, and cut off from the world with only a cat for company. Endless time was only seemingly unlimited, any second the doors could slam open, SOLDIERs would pour in, his pseudo sanctuary would be shattered in the presence of mako green eyes mirrors. Unblinking, expressionless, visages would consider him… and reveal nothing. At last, safe and sound from the rear, his father would swagger in.

" _We've traced the call boy, we know matter of fact who you were talking to and why. You're considered an "information leak" my boy, and so son or no son we're going to deal with you accordingly…"_

'Nation would take the first barrage. He'd taken the elder Shinra's kicks before and done so unflinchingly. Bullet or foot, Dark Nation would brave first assault hits and crumple dead in Rufus' arms.

Not one to offer reprieve, even for grief, the old man would nod, and those around him would open fire again…

"Merow?" A paw patted his shoulder, a tentacle draped over his shoulder even as the alien limb's owner gently nuzzled the back of his neck. Breath hot and reeking of fish, tickled the back of the heirs' neck. Oblivious to his master's dark thoughts, only seeing pain and distress, the panther-hound let out a low purr and crowded close.

The arm that shot out and drew him close might have shook, the visage pressed against his chest might have been wet and salty to the smell, but it was familiar.

And for that familiarity Dark Nation purred all the louder.

 


	22. Kelidoscope

Equilibrium

Kaleidoscope

 

 

Descent came like ascent, it came hard and fast, except the welcoming committee wasn't fluffy clouds it was cold hard steel. Looking down, considering that leap and its deadly ramifications for even one of his kind, the SOLDIER nodded. Touching the small knob on his helmet he activated the mini two way phone and contacted headquarters. His voice came in, though marred by static they could hear him loud and clear.

"This is Aero from unit one reporting from the Turk floor of the Shinra building. Looks like we had a jumper." One long window out of the three hung open, not the center one he noted, no the one was still bolted shut. The only open window was the one that over looked sector five of the plate. Bored out of his skull the SOLDIER leaned against the window frame. He reached out with a gloved hand to tap the ajar half. Whoever this Turk had been, he'd been vain if nothing else. Wasting money and good material to reinforce one of those fancy windows that swung open and shut like a door. "No signs of struggle, it looks like he just opened the window and jumped out."

"Suicide?" Growled the mission's commander.

"Probably, you were in the war. Wutai are so damn honorable they'll slice and dice their own guts if you ask nice."

The whole building had been emptied; the people in it were either long gone or dead. The few who'd been in were underlings, young Turk's just barely out of the training program. They hadn't even put up a fight, and that had been the creepy part. Though there were only five all told they all were hanging out in the break room, chill as ice. Sipping coffee and chowing down on doughnuts like any other exec break room the company over, none of them had looked up as the SOLDIERS entered.

"Don't even bother." One pale slip of a girl, not even bothering to look up from the magazine she was reading, counseled. "Mr. Tseng said you'd be here and he made arrangements. He's been detained, but the office will be presentable in a few minutes."

At the face of such passivity the soldiers had looked to sergeants and the sergeants had looked to the squad's captain.

"We've got our orders. Kill the-"

A croak and a thud cut the captain off mid command. Before a SOLDIER had even pulled the trigger a blond Turk went down. Eyes wide, the kid choked on nothing at all. His blue eyes bugging he hit the floor with a dull thump, and as he went down another of the youngsters began to gag.

All around the table Turks went down. In seconds four bodies were writhing on the ground, some foaming at the mouth and scrapping at the carpet's fine hairs with crooked fingers, others merely flopped.

Unconcerned the lead Turk turned a page, and only when a college's hand brushed her foot did she respond. Looking up, she considered the clock behind the men who had standing orders to kill her. A wry smile curled her lips.

"It is currently two past ten. You are running late, the President will see you now."

Then, with a laugh she had pulled something small bit of metal that had been hidden in the last pages of the magazine. A flash of light caught the edge of the razor, then it was gone, lost in a torrent of red.

The young Turk, a pretty thing who couldn't have been older than eighteen, had just plunger a razor into her own throat.

Skepo… Supeko… Leaving the window to hang open the SOLDIER shuddered and tried to remember the word. It skittered away, like a Wutia unit running to their home base. Su something or other, whatever the word it was some crazy Wutia tradition. Honorable suicide, death before dishonor, he'd seen it before. He recalled the few times he'd storming into some "Lords" half burnt down home, his buddies behind him, only to be greeted by carnage. Looking for materia and hostages his unit had found whole families taking knives to the gut and chugging poison rather then admitting they lost.

"Fucking Wutia, making kids like that take poison." The SOLDIERS had orders to kill, but it would have been clean and quick, not dragged out like _that_ …

_Bodies flopping on the floor like fish on a boats' bottem…_

_"It is currently two past ten…"_

Lifting his head, remembering the dead girl's words, he looked to the room's sole clock. It was a box really, a box with glaring numbers. The whole clock had been imbedded in a steel wall so tight it didn't stick out a half inch. Colored an evil crimson, the numbers said that the time was eighteen before ten.

Amused, he reached up and pressed the button on the side of his helmet.

"Commander, remember that girl, the red haired chick? She was wrong, it ain't ten past two, not yet. Funny, huh?"

"Hilarious." The Commander grumbled.

Holding the button down he could hear the others, and having nothing better to do he kept it down. The window had lost it's charm a long time ago. His team's voices came between static hisses, and everyone was reporting the same thing.

"The roaches even bailed." One voice grumbled. "It's _that_ clean."

"It's too clean, but that isn't our problem. Send the OK to the wuss coats. Aero, Jade, you got guard duty when the suits come marching in."

"I'll escort 'em in." Jade offered.

Aero, snarling an oath, grudgingly agreed to hold down the "fort". Granted the fort was empty and all, it was going to be a boring wait, but what the hell. He'd done worse things than twiddle his thumbs on the job, and at least he was gettin' paid. Kicking back in the boss Turk's chair the SOLDIER played with images of his upcoming vacation. He was a month in the waiting game and the Company had finally folded to give the war vet his dues. Costa del Sol was the place to go, and to hell if he wasn't going after this stint. He'd earned it!

With nothing to do but sit and think he rocked on the chair, oblivious to how the metal joints were creaking in displeasure at the force of his motions. Gun slung in his lap the SOLDIER yawned, and wished the Co. wasn't so paranoid. He hated the "assumed name" regulation when on the job. Sure, Aero had seemed cool when he'd joined the force three years ago, but the wear and tear and grind of life made the name get old fast.

Maybe he'd bully some exec to make a change on the files... But then, maybe not. Aero was the name the boys knew him by, and in the baggy blue 'form there wasn't a way to tell who was who.

When the door finally creaked open and group of white coats and execs crept in the room Aero snorted, looked to the clock on the wall.

"You're a bunch a slows, the lot of you. I've been waiting a whole twenty min-"

Waving at the clock the impatient SOLDIER was the only one who saw the exact moment the digital timepiece hit two past ten. It was the last thing he saw, he heard something go click as he looked into those blood red numbers, then he saw the world go up in a blaze of red, then nothing at all.

Aero, an impatient man, at least got one wish. He was the first man out and the on in the best shape going down. At least until his body hit the cement after a fifty story drop.

X

"Two soldiers, code named Aero and Jade, were the one's hit in the fire." An aide reported. Lowering his hand he didn't drop his at attention pose a hair, knowing Heiddegger's hair trigger temper. "Sprinklers put out the blaze, the ignition material wasn't all that flammable anyways." Seeing the President's confusion the Commander clarified. "The stuff had more kick than burn, if you take my meaning."

President Shinra was number crunching man. He had a knack for guns and numbers and a network of far seeing accomplishments. But past that the President had little else going for him. To salvage his image he nodded, as might a man who had all the answers would.

"Head of computer and technology was in the room, as were a number of immediate subordinates and that outside hacker we hired, but beyond the two SOLDIERS, there weren't any casualties."

Chewing on his lip in vexation, the President growled. "I'm still going to have to fill the holes in the lesser departments."

"Put some of Palmer's people in." Heidegger suggested with a shrug. "Last head of Tech was ambitious anyways; else he wouldn't have been jumping at the opportunity to hack into the Turk's computers. Palmer and his kind aren't ambitious, just seat warmers, and that's all you need at Tech."

Nodding, as a wise man is supposed to to indicate an important decision, the President of Shinra leaned back into his mammoth chair as if satisfied. His nostrils flared, as if he could take in the mood of the room by scent alone. With a frown spreading the across his broad face the President folded thick fingered hands together, his narrowed his eyes.

"Anything else," Alexander Shinra pressed.

"A few requests to go home early," Heidegger answered with a shrug.

Heidegger's subordinate's eyes flicked over to his superior than went back to staring intently at nothing. Catching the blatant move of shock, Alexander snorted.

"I'm not a fool Heidegger, what I said _was_ , is there anything else. Let me clarify if age is slowing you down. Is there _anything else_ related to the Turk uprising that I need to know about?"

"A handful of calls from unidentified sources have been coming in. Personal calls from home." Hiedegger was a soldier through and through, he gave ground grudgingly. "There's some crap going around from the generals' office that they're families have been calling in. That's all."

"I thought flu season was over." The president drawled.

Heidegger looked blankly at the air in front of Alex's face, like his face, his slate hued eyes revealed nothing. Running a hand through his graying locks, the president let out a sigh.

"Heidegger, we've been working together for too long for games. Answer me this, am I going to be hearing about this rash of calls on the news tonight?"

"That depends," the head of defense answered, "on if the authorities can find the civilian's bodies."

X

_A day, long ago, was when they'd made their acquaintance, and for that casual interaction, he was damned it seemed._

They weren't friends, not by a long shot. Living different lives, doing different shifts, they were alike in only two ways. The first was that they both lived for their work; the second was that they both had a taste for the same foods.

Rubbing shoulders with the lower executives and company members was a refreshing change to lunch alone in his office. The chatter was bright and friendly, and though departments were loath to mingle outside their clicks it was a change. Interaction was most lively at the buffet tables, where squabbles of this and that occurred. Rather than risk their people to the powerless streets below Shinra was working its catering department to overtime to make every type of food imaginable. The freak electricity storm had also cut off power to the upper levels, so everyone was jammed into the layman's cafeteria. Turks talked shop and sports with SOLDIERS, SOLDIERS shamelessly flirted with the well dressed beauties that adorned the most powerful men's desk and languished over paperwork.

The beauty of Shinra, Reeve decided that afternoon, was the diversity of people working under her wing.

Drawn by the smells that marked one neglected table as Wutia cuisine Reeve had been delighted to see bowls and plates that were haloed by steam and nostalgia. Stealing a pair of chopsticks he had wandered about, taking a bite of this, a slice of that. In the back, lingering by stand of cooled sushi, was a man clad in a blue business suit. The slick black boots, stiff stature, and immaculate tie, marked him as a Turk. Following behind the Turk was a young man with blonde hair who was looking at both the food and his companion dubiously.

"Well, hello, fancy seeing anyone else here." He greeted the two. "Let me guess," Reeve who loved to guess, flashed the surprised duo a smile. Using his chopsticks to point, the executive gestured the blond behind his fellow half Wutian. "He's career shadowing you, correct? I understand the President just passed some paperwork encouraging the company and educational facilities to arrange these trips for the kids…"

Blinking, the boy looked up at him. His eyes were a shocking blue; the lack of expression in them put images of ice in Reeve's mind.

"No…" The boy said slowly, his tone slow and words carefully enunciated as if he thought he was dealing with a simpleton. "Tseng's my bodyguard. And you're crazy if you think I'm going to eat fish that isn't cooked!" The last was directed to the black haired, black eyed, man in blue.

"Don't be a child, Rufus. Its' fish, it's dead, it won't bite you."

"No, but the salmonella will kill me."

Jaw sagged open to the point that he looked like one of the dead fish Reeve staggered back a step. His pale and the chopsticks shook and rattled in his now unsteady grip.

"Y… You're the… _Mr. Vice President_?"

"Please, it's been a bad enough day. Just call me Rufus. And for the final time, I'm not eating raw fish. I'll just get some rice and greens, maybe a slice of pizza…"

Wandering off, the Vice President seemed oblivious to his bodyguard's shudder of distaste.

"Tea, rice, snap peas, and _pizza_?" Tseng nearly gagged in horror at the thought.

"Try ranch dressing on pizza if you're going for disgusting. It's a wonder the kids haven't killed themselves with malnutrition yet." Reeve confided to the Turk.

With a growl of agreement Tseng left the Wutia food stand with obvious reluctance to shadow his charge.

 


	23. Equilibrium:  Kalediscope part 2

 

Equilibrium:

Kaleidoscope part 2

 

 

The door had been open, and always one to shoot for a story and dirt he'd taken the opportunity. The saying "it's too good to be true" never crossed his mind, at least not until after he'd flicked the light switch on and gotten a good look around. One lost lunch later and he was using the Suit's phone. Dialing the boss then dialing the cops, not caring who got there just so long as someone came.

Murder cases this high profile didn't grow on trees, and if he played it right it could be his big break...

The bodies were set in neat little row. From the smallest to the largest, they were lined up, as if for a photo shoot. Bullet's delivered at point blank to the face were the cause of death. No one was spared, from the infant child taken from the crib to the grandmother forced out of her wheel chair. Blood smeared the room, carnage had a particular smell he learned, an iron tinge that was almost overwhelmed by the scent of feces. The dead knew no control, no modesty, so they lay in pools of their own fluids wearing shattered masks of raw red.

Wrinkling his nose, the reporter tip toed around the room, minding the pools of red. He'd already done a quick search of the area, and found no one and nothing alive. Whoever had done the killing had been through enough to kill the families' dog. In the unnatural quiet he'd indulged every peeing tom habit, riffled through this and that, and he'd been caught in the act. SOLDIER squad and investigators had come in while he had been perusing the content's of the victim's master bedroom. The camera was rolling even when they dragged him out and upbraided him for screwing around with evidence. He caught glimpses of badges in the green tinted lights. Bits of plastic hanging by metal clips, all done in Shinra red and white… All these men were from the Shinra Company, none of them were independent or even governmental branches…

One rude shove later and he was picking himself off the ground right by the front door. As if hearing the tenor of his thoughts the SOLDIER on door duty tilted his head down to watch him. The man's long blue uniform and blue mask obscured his features, even as his thick frame obscured the horrible view within.

"You, civilian, you're not supposed to be here. Get out!"

Not one to take anything from anyone the reporter hopped to his feet, his mouth opened to protest. One thick fingered hand reached out for him, common sense made him pull back, and the grip that looked like it was going for his throat just jarred the camera.

"I… I was just heading out." Turning on his heel the reporter tailed out of there as fast as he could. Guts were one thing, but survival was another. The red slits that covered the SOLDIER'S eyes seemed demonic, and he wasn't one to flirt with certain death for a paycheck. The paparazzi high tailed it out, cursing the klutz SOLDIER under his breath. When he was some distance away from SOLDIER General Glenn's upper plate home the reporter considered his dinged up his camera.

A familiar rattle and whirl told him the tape was rolling, he'd gotten it all.

With a smile and nod he headed down the street, dreams of money and acclaim making him oblivious to the heavy foot falls behind him.

X

"It's been an interesting day, hasn't it sir?"

The whirl of blades cutting through the air made normal speech impossible. Each word of that query was yelled through the hurricane like winds the 'copter generated to keep itself afloat. A full head of blond hair was tossed to and fro as the open door allowed them to taste a raw elemental power. All this was offered, compliment's of Shinra's finest.

"Very interesting," he conceded. The storm of man's making ripped the voice from his words. His mouth made motions, his mind tasted the words, but they went unheard.

"Close the damn door!" Roared a familiar, if age worn, voice.

"Yes sir." Eyes never leaving the open window above him, the Turk groped for the sliding doors' handle. Finding his objective he tightened his grip and pulled. The storm fought him, his stubbornness prevailed and the noise level within the helicopter settled to a more manageable level as the door closed with a bang.

"Age is making you addle wit _and_ sentimental." The old man's voice snarled. "Stop composing Wutia hykus and snap too!"

Shaking his head, the younger Turk cracked a slight smile to his elder. The show of informality made the old man's face tint red, but nothing was said. No reprimand was offered as steel hued eyes settled on the suitcase that the younger held. Still hugging the briefcase to his chest, the item that could cost him his life and already had cost the lives of those assigned to work with him; Tseng let his smile widen a hair.

"I've been successful."

"How many of ours are dead?" Veld asked, his harsh voice gone husky.

Veld was an old man. Bent and grey, his vision was fading, and his voice was made rough from years of yelling commands. Once loyal to the company, now only loyal to the Turks, he'd lost his family to the Shinra's. When the knowledge that Shinra was responsible for the deaths of his wife and child had been proven Veld had cut his ties.

With Tseng's help the old Turk had faded away into semi-retirement.

"Semi" being the key word. Veld still had a temper like a duel-horn, easily riled and eager for a fight. Though age and experience curl tailed his blood thirstiness, life meant nothing to the vengeance minded. Though his hand might shake he'd take a gun in a palsied hand to hunt down those who wronged his Turks.

Leaning back, caressing the worn edges of his suitcase, the younger Turk allowed the curve of the passenger's seat to take his weight with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that information is classified."

"Don't treat my like some damn civ." Veld snarled. "I may have been out of the action for a few years but I'm not dead yet."

"No sir, you aren't dead yet." Tseng agreed with a sigh. "I assure you; we are taking account of our losses and paying them back with interest. I've sent Reno and some of the more blooded ones to compensate."

"Who?"

"Xeld, for starters."

Xeld was the only mako enhanced Turk left in Shinra. The injections had eroded his control and humanity until he had become a human shell with a thirst for fighting. The sole visages of his sanity were slavish loyalty to the Turks and an insane hatred for Heidegger. Perhaps, in some corner of his soul, the subhuman Turk recalled that Heidegger had been the one to coerce him into taking the Mako injections.

Or maybe it was instinct, some primal imprint instinct distorted by an alien organism's influence.

"Shit." Eyes wide in shock Veld settled back against the curve of his chair. "Shit…"

"My thoughts exactly" Tseng murmured, absently the Turk pulled his coat on tighter, as if to ward of a chill. Pulling the edges of his blue business coat together he let his mind dwell upon the hundred and one variables that were now in play. For the moment he was oblivious to the black fur that had been shed by the seat's previous inhabitant. Above him the office's window swayed, it acquired a golden edge due to its motions. A thin line of light trickled down from heaven and caressed the glass edge, pointing a celestial finger upon the lead Turk's escape route. He stared up at the window, his eyes distant, thoughtful, even as their route made them pull away.

"Sir," Craning her neck the blonde Turk considered her boss. Her blue eyes were caressed with a thin line of water. The wild winds and light made the girl's sensitive eyes tear up. All in all the Turk decided that the tears lent the girl an illusion of incompetence. A shame that, considering that she'd never shed it. One could never outrun from the consequences of their genes, faulty of not. Considering how she smoothly managed the pick up –catching a man who had just leapt out of a building was no mean feat- Tseng decided that the girl wasn't given helicopter duty often and he'd amend it when he got the chance. "-where to?"

Checking the clasps of the briefcase, confident they were secure, the half Wutai set it on the floor. "Anywhere but here."

X

He had been amazing, more than amazing, he'd been memorable. She smiled, twining a hand through her blonde locks, eyes abstracted as she thought of _him_. Normally men were a past time, she preyed on them like any good predator and left her leavings to the secretaries. Being lioness of the den did have its advantages after all; a mere gaze was enough to ward off the weaker. They knew not to cross her path, because the games of lust -like the games of power- had only one rule.

Take no prisoners.

She'd left a number of blasted shells behind in her conquests. Those were as memorable as the man she watched. Like a man's scent, the weaklings lingered on in her psyche. But they were allowed to linger, they were welcome. They're fame, their success, their lives, all a toasted ruin on an empty plane.

And, truth be told, she liked to visit them on her off time.

She'd fired a few girls in her time and multitudes of men. Her "people" -as the president liked to call it- exchanged power and rank at her whim, and most did it with a servile smile that made her sick. Being a woman she had to fight a lot of prejudice. Women weren't supposed to play with guns, play, hell she'd shoot at the bastard who denied her any ballista with a wide smile on her face. Weapons were power, and she loved power and explosions,  
which was why she clawed her way up to the top of the Weapon's Department. Prejudice was her enemy, her fame a mild restraint, but out of all the flaws in her life there was one assumption the weak made about her that drove her wild. Rule number one of corporate seemed to be that sleeping with a girl in power was the same as getting a freebie. She liked crushing that delusion the most. Though reputation said the opposite, she'd fire a bedmate a readily as a celibate virgin in a blink of an eye, but to those special men thought they knew _her_...

She liked to open up with a few fond words. Moving in with a smile she'd stroll around the desk and let a careless caress linger for a moment. When she identified the glitter of hope in their eyes and the hot blood of passion on their faces' _that_ was when she set the proverbial slap across the face.

And they broke, every single one of them. The hope shattered and they ran screaming for mommy.

All but _him_ , when she delivered the parting blow he didn't break. She'd held him and they'd done the usual, and... nothing. He'd gotten what he wanted... no what he had demanded. One stupid paper with numbers on it, to go. She hadn't asked him what he wanted, had spent a moment fished through the papers she set aside for Turk pursel. The real pages of the report were already on the president's desk, she had nothing to fear. So amused at his demand she'd given him that page without a struggle. A page that meant the same as a crap to her, and he'd taken that page at the end of their transaction. He took it and strolled to the door as cool as ice.

In a huff she'd hollered after him, "It's not what you want! It's not the real deal!"

To that the bald Turk had turned. His tie had been eskew, the skin on his scalp rubbed raw due to the harsh caress of her nails. She remembered these things, and his taste had been on her lips, his scent in her nostrils. She licked her lips, a invitation in her eyes.

He smiled, straightened his tie without looking, "Let's say I go what I was ordered to, and leave it at that, Scarlet."

And with that parting shot, Rude had walked out.

 


	24. Equilibrum:  The TEP

Equilibrium

TEP

 

 

 

His hair was stark silver, his face pale, the pupils of his eyes doing a merry jig as he smiled. Wiping blood from his face, oblivious to the fact he smeared it, the man bared his yellow teeth. The light was good, despite it being an alley, or rather the camera's light was consistent, and it's wide beam was enough to see by. Green tinted light highlighted the tears in the blue clad man's suit, kissed the bloody wounds with hues of putrefaction. The silver haired man was dressed like a lawyer, and his smile was wide and inviting as that of a cars salesman seeing a sap.

"You're the reporter."

Tone made the question, into a statement. Granted it was a broad guess, but the assumption was astute. Any lies he could have dared could all be disputed by the camera humming in his shaking hands.

"I am..." The paparazzo's knees were knocking, he wanted to bolt, run fast and hard. But he knew the folly of that. One of the SOLDIERS that had tailed him had tried to run after seeing his buddy's throat get crushed for him. With a scream of "Zel" the SOLDIER had ran like hell was after him. With a sigh that had the characteristics of a grunt to it the broad shouldered suit had bound after the blue uniformed man. They'd gone around a bend, just out of sight. Gun fire had sounded, then there'd been this horrible scream and a crunch...

Zel, or whoever this thing was, had returned, smiling. His hands were crusted in red and grey stuff that dripped from thick knobby fingers.

"You're good, a good pop," The thing in the suit had murmured. His tone was soft, almost a growl, but the words were those you'd say to a shaken dog. "Good pop." The thing murmured, drawing closed. When the thing extended his hand the reporter whimpered in response. In his mind the man was seeing those fingers sinking into his hairline, the grip would tighten, he'd scream as the pressure built...

And with that wide sucker-you smile, the creature with the flickering eyes would crack his skull open like you popped open a peanut.

"Good pop."

The hand settled on his head, tousled his hair even. He shook, looked up and just shook. The blood soaked hand slid down, leaving a run of red down the side of his head, one thick finger settled under his chin. His head was chucked gentle by a gore encrusted hand.

"Come. You come. Turn off cam-ra and come."

"Yeah..." Knees shaking, seeing in his mind what could happen if he didn't the reporter swallowed. "I'm comin'."

X

"Xeld didn't do half bad, not really." One arm was crossed over his chest to hold some soggy bandages in place, with his free hand Reno ran one digit over the prize as if not believing it was real. Then, at Tseng's nod he stepped back, faded into the crowd around him. "Didn't know they made tape based films anymore." He murmured as he stepped into the shadows.

"The independents do. They always have."

Behind him, around him, there was a gathering of Turks. Blue uniformed and the black, those of Heidegger's sect and of Tseng's, they stood as a gathering of violate witnesses. Some bled, others were merely burned, and none were treated. Materia was scarce, and at this point healing materia was non-existent. You either stood and endured or were left behind to die.

Just like the good old days.

Nostalgia realized, memories were reclaimed in realization. He had to smile at the irony of it all, and as if catching the tenor of this thoughts Veld laughed.

"You're freakin' insane, Wutai."

"Yes sir." He agreed, the perfect image of Turk placidity. "Of course, sir." Pushing back his chair, -which was little more than a well made crate-Tseng stood. His black hair caught the one light overhead. Perhaps it haloed him, perhaps not, he didn't care for Continental symbolism. Let others see and draw fanciful images for this moment, he couldn't be bothered. Not now, not with his Turks' at stake. Rookies stood side by side with the proven, around him was a standing parade of black and blue.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentleman," He began, letting his gaze sweep across the length of the shed he and Veld had "appropriated" for the purpose of this one meeting. "I understand that a great many of you have been caught up in the recent bout of politicking that has occurred. Most Turks are neutral, some are not, but neither party if to blame for what has occurred. I can guarantee to each and every one of you this was a corporate retaliation lead by the President, and furthermore, I have proof."

With a loud bang he slammed the suitcase on the makeshift table. Crates really, all of the furniture was confiscated crates. Within were goods that a squad of SOLDIERS had snagged in a black market bust. Chocobo feathers, phoenix feathers, and rare plants marked endangered or were only to be harvested for medicinal purposes. All had been taken, the raid had been a success, and the brave independent that had dared ship the stuff into Midgar was in prison. The liberally incline entrepreneur was probably dead by now, and if not an "accident" would occur at any time now. The goods, though of a dubious nature, were already made and would -if the public asked- be "destroyed" on a set date. The day before the destruction was to happen there would be another "accident", and the goods would go on sale in the back alleys and trade spots of Midgar and the gil would flow into the Shinra's pockets under the label of "governments donation". A few clicks and turns of the lock later and the case were open. A number of folders and pages had been set in the steel cases' hollow; they caught the green tinted light and were reflected in a multitude of shades. Unblinking eyes of those nearest to the table considered the pages, even as he pulled them out, laid them down flat on the table.

Like a conjurer with a trick, he pulled them out. One after another, they stacked themk, like cards from a deck.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the President's TEP. Or, if you rather, the Turk Elimination Program." Tseng murmured.

The obedient quiet exploded into a hate filled cacophony.

 


	25. Equilibrium:  Dive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, even though puns are the lowest form of humor I couldn't resist at least two in this chapter... The formatting doesn't quite look right but I made it look as close to the original as I could.

Equilibrium:

Dive

An odd letter slipped under the door. It was thick, so thick it had gotten caught, or so reported the SOLDIER who found it. After the brown wrapped parcel was sent a defunct quarintine room and checked for varous contaminents it was then delivered to the temporary headquarters held by Alexander Shinra. Upon opening a number of papers spilled out, as well as a hand written letter that was left on the bottem and written directly to the President. Segments of the topmost pages were left scattered upon the table after being read, the closing letter triggered -after presual- a heated exchange between Heidegger and the President.

xx/xx/xxxx

Exert from the "Shinra Corperate" minute recorder, K. S

XXX

(The following has been both paraphrased and catagorized for the ease of layman consumption.)

All the following are exerts from SHINRA inc. Source; various files and documents deemed relevent to the upcoming case.

H: … _and so it's decided that upon the date (a thick line obscures text) that the independent faction, the TURKS, will be excommunicated from the company._

_S: "Since the TURKS primary function is espionage, assassination, and sabotage, they are deemed a threat to normal society and such should be eliminated before they become a danger. Any method should be used, even the most brutal, for if left among the bulk of society the overall TURK anti-social tendencies would lead to levels of violence beyond our reckoning. To protect those under the Shinra Company's jurisdiction and those without, I, Alexander Shinra, give total legal and corporate pardon to those men assigned to track down and dispose of Tseng of the Turks. This is a blanket pardon, and may be employed on any and all who join in the elimination of Tseng and all of his subordinates."_

_XXX_

_All calls from the T file (date xx/xx/xxxx)_

_ T call from _

_unlisted_

_x (565) 462-8875_

_6:00 am xx/xx/xxxx_

_DURATION: 0m 15s_

_ T call from _

_unlisted_

_x (565) 462-8875_

_6:03 am xx/xx/xxxx_

_DURATION: 0m 16s_

_This patern continues on all TURK lines. All attempted contactiees did not pick up and the caller(s) were not on the line long enough for any of the company's tracing software to pick up on the location of the"unlisted" individual(s). Two varients to the pattern are below, they've been highlighted for emphasis._

_ T call from _

_unlisted_

_x (565) 462-8875_

_8:05 am xx/xx/xxxx_

_DURATION: 3m 22s_

_ T call to _

_Restricted_

_(xxx) xxx-xxxx 1:49 pm xx/xx/xxxx_

_DURATION: 9m 22s_

_X_

A newspaper clipping had been clipped a-top of the thick brown envelope, it reads;

_...The last two calls as well as the closing line by speaker "S" have been highlighted to draw attention to them. Both point to proof that A) the Turks had a insider within the Shinra corperate circle. One whom made duplicates of a secretary's minuets on party "S" and "H"'s discustion. and that B) this individual or one with simular loyalties was discovered at some point in time during thier covert work. Whether of not this informant has been detianed, interogated, or killed is unknown. As of the present moment all potential suspects (the highest executives within the Shinra company) have dropped out of sight and contact with any of them has proven impossible._

_Public suspicions are high, and rumors are circulating that not only will a fuller copy of this mysterious TURK report be presented at a later time for the public's consumption. Both independent and mainstream newspapers have been given exact copies of the following documents with the explicit instructions to make them available to the public. Video and recorded evidence that incriminates the head of Shinra inc has been promised to be delivered in fourty eight hours_...

XXX

"Greetings to Mr. A. Shinra... and all parties to whom should be gravely concerned.

I extend my most warmest salutations from the now defunct Turk headquarters. I'm sure you've enjoyed our little going away gifting, and I assure you we are more than cappable and willing to offer many more such offerings to the Corperate whom we've all sworn life long service for. Since the sacrifice of our very lives seems to be unsuitable to your standards we are upping the ante and offering more than that.

We are offering you your lives.

The stability, the power, and emotional contacts you crave -these things which we've given our lives to insure- we now turn on to properly gun down. Please consider with all due gravity you actions in disbanding the TURK faction, and know that this is merely the begining. In approximately five hours the TURKs computer intellegence branch will begin a company wide hacking attempt to destroy the various firewalls you've set up. As a courtesy we will even tell you are next target; the bioengineering devision. As time and resources premit we will be un-encoding the CLASSIFIED "G" and "S" documents as well as opening the NEBELHIME report and setting them up for public presual.

I imagine, that if nothing else, the true accounts of those events will do much to discredit you. If that fails, we are more than able to play on familial ties. For each day contact is not established between the executibe branch and the TURK branch one member of the inner Shinra circle will have a tragic family "accident". We will of course, be more than willing to bring proof to the unfortunate member in form of video-footage or more... sustantial proof if it desired. Merely inform our contact of the preference and we will happily comply.

Tseng of the Turks"


	26. Equilibrium:  A Man in the Monster's Den

Equilibrium

A man in a Monster's den

 

 

It was a riot, pure and simple. The executives were divided; half wanted blood, the more cautious and humane just wanted a truce struck.

"You're all just a bunch of cowards!" Heidegger roared. "You're letting a bunch of suits push you around."

"Considering that we know for a fact that Mr. Glenndale's family was massacred I'd hardly say that opening up negotiations with the party that's _sworn to do more of the same if we don't initiate contact_ isn't cowardice! It's prudent! We can't afford to have these rouge Turks running amuck and killing at whim!" Slamming a fist into the table with enough force to make the nearby cups hop, Reeve glared at the President as if it were all Alex's fault. "We can't just do nothing!"

"You _know_ what's in those files, Shinra." Hojo's thin lips were pressed into a line, each word that forced was past them acquired a faint hiss as they slipped out. "They must not fall into the public's hands!"

"To _hell_ with these precious files of yours!" Reeve snarled. Turning on Hojo, his bloodless face made his warm brown eyes seem like sockets in a skull. "They'll go after our families next. Then after that they'll start killing civilians. Don't tell me that none of you care. That you're damned _authority_ is so precious to you that you'd let those monsters kill your friends and family."

"I'm not so… emotionally encumbered." Hojo countered with a shrug. "I've found that wholehearted dedication to my studies is enough to fill my life."

Wringing his thick hands Palmer let out a low moan at the word "kill". The head of Space Development hadn't declared a side in this fight, and ever since hearing the news had merely wailed and gripped his own hands so often that they were starting to bruise.

"You're being soft Reeve." Tossing her head Scarlet looked down on the head of Urban resources. Her heels gave her a half inch boost on the lateral spectrum and she was using that half inch like it counted. "People come and go, power is forever."

If it were possible Reeve would have gone paler, since it wasn't here merely shivered and shook his head as if trying to banish a horrible dream made real. His mouth opened and closed, but for the moment he was out of the game.

And game it was, despite everything the jockeying went on. People scrabbled for power and position; glances were cast at the man at the foot of the table between heated arguments. Support sought, and perhaps in their passionate minds attained, for a mere glance at the President seemed to spur them on. Each saw the glint in broad shoulder man's eyes as confirmation to what they needed. Approval for militant emphasis, the contained flicker of worry over secrets revealed the glint of compassion that lay under a cool facade. Each was lost in there own small minded view, and they never considered the positioning of the lights above into their equation.

A small slant, barely obvious, set the President in the spotlight. All the lights may have illuminated the room, but the bulk of them were tilted to focus on the head of the table. Subtle, yet juvenile, it was another ploy for one man to appear the center of things and to cast the one at the foot of the table into shadow.

He didn't mind for once, running the contents of the letter and the few pages provided over in his mind. He didn't mind that they couldn't see his expression, for though he kept a cool facade over his face his eyes flickered as he went over everything. He waited, eyes pressed into thin slits, he considered them all from his ebon winter. He waited in patience, having been taught patience from one who's life depended on taking advantage of the right moment.

Idly his hands wandered, tracing patterns on Dark-Nation's head, the panther-hound purred, but that gentle noise was lost in the screaming of the adults.

All in all, Rufus Shinra decided, adults weren't really all that different from children, at least not this batch. When the silence came, the golden moment, he pounced. His weapon was made of words, his tone was crisp, and the effect was liken to that of a gun shot in a silent room

"We didn't see everything, there is more."

They turned to him, one and all, even Palmer stopped mid moan to stare at him, the pilot's muddy eyes were wide with shock. Having had his audience wrenched from him in that quiet moment, the President's lip curled, showing well rounded yellowing teeth in what was not a smile. Unimpressed Rufus, pushed his chair back to stand, then leaned against the table with a sigh.

"Were's the rest of it, old man? We can't act on anything with half the facts."

"I'd like to know where you got that information, on the lack of documents." The President snapped.

"Easy." Picking up the pile of pages Rufus pulled back a number of them, then let them fall. The rustle of paper passing through his fingers, the flip of page falling through air, it was loud, loud enough for them all to hear the disturbing trend.

The sound wasn't steady. All of them, from Palmer on up, were used to handling files and folders. Years of making reports and sending them out had made paper a part of their lives, and they were all attuned to the sound of pages falling through the fingers. The rush of noise was akin to that made by a book being blazed through at top speed. Gravity made the numbers and letters a meaningless blur in Rufus' fingers, and the sound should have been consistent. The half second lag in certain segments was damning in the tense quiet.

Then that quiet ended as all the executives turned to the President.

All were now unified in distrust.

With a smirk Rufus sat back down. Fat rimmed eyes were fixed on him, but he ignored it, indulged in a yawn even as he reclined. Nation, only seeing the return of The Lap let out a happy bark and set his head on Rufus' thigh. Tail and tentacle waved high in the air as Rufus scritched the feline behind the ears.

X

They'd all been thrown out, after hours of fighting and wrangling Alexander Shinra's small supply of patience had been shot, buried, and forsaken.

There was only one choice now. All the computers in Midgar had to be shut down. It was the only way to counter the Turk's proposed sabotage. But to cut power form all the computer's in Midgar held certain risks. One could not just say… find the IP number of an intruder and cut power to it. That was too fine tuned, and in regards to supplying electricity Shinra was effective, not nit pick.

And that lack of fine control would be damning.

"You want to what?" Reeve exploded.

"Shut down all the computers in Midgar, and if I needed to do so how would I go about it?"

"B…but… my specimens!" Hojo shrilled his tone was that of a woman screaming as her babe is wrenched from her arms. "You can't! There's too much data that we'd lose..."

"We have exactly forty five minutes." The President snapped. "And I'm not going to waste a second in arguing. It's either that or we shut down _all_ power in Midgar."

Hospitals would lose information; patients could and would be misdiagnosed. Subway systems would crash at worse and people would be stranded for hours until rescue squads of SOLDIERS could be sent to retrieve them at best. People would get hurt and die, but that was nothing compared to the pure anarchy that would rein if _all_ power was lost.

Gnawing on his lower lip, Reeve considered the odds, and sighed. The weight of all that responsibility was a heavy thing, and it was one he didn't want to take lightly. Indecision though could be just as dangerous as the wrong choice. Squaring his shoulders Reeve gave out the code to override the reactor. He gave Alex the sequence of commands that would allow him to override all the reactor's from any computer, then walked him through the process to commence a system wide computer shut down. The voice of hope in his heart whispered that maybe, just maybe, if Tseng saw himself thwarted he'd stop this madness.

The voice of Hojo rose, but only to voice discontent. "You are aware that this is only a temporary measure, Mr. President? That if the Turks' find a way to bypass this power outage… say to acquire an alternate source of power, that the whole of Shinra Co.'s files will be laid bare in a fraction of the time if would take if everything was up an running? After all, we are basically breaking down the fire-walls on our end by shutting everything dow-"

As the tirade went on -all of it coached in tone of chilling placidity- Reeve felt his hands ache. It was only then sparing a glance down, that he saw that his hands were knotted into fists, the pain born from nails that were digging into the soft expanse of palm. Rage glinted in his eyes, though his anger was wreathed in tears of grief. He blinked, and felt the corner of his eyes burn in response. Hate filled profanities coiled in the back of his throat, stress made his shoulders bunch, and he let some of his anger out with a deep breath.

 _Inhale, exhale, slowly, steady_...

Forced calm inflicted introspection of the worst kind. He was forced to acknowledge his anger, disperse it, and like a cloud of smog blasted away by a gust of wind he could see it's source and felt sick for the revelation. A self proclaimed pacifist he wanted nothing more than to lash out at all of then. Images of "gifting" Tseng with a pair of shinning black eyes, of dismantling the Turks from Shinra and having them all dragged to some vile prison in shackles... Failing at that, he wanted to scream at Hojo, at Alex, at all of them who dithered and complained at the lack of luxury that this "temporary confinement" entailed.

Freedom wasn't free, power came at a price, there were no happy endings... Intellectually he knew all of that, but his heart broke as he realized that everything that was morally right was wrong in this entrepreneur driven world.

_We're trapped in a cage of our own making, and we've blissfully thrown away the key..._

"Mr. President," Reeve's voice sounded as tight as his nerves, he licked his lips and studied the point on Alex's desk. Not daring to lift his eyes and look at Alex Shinra head on. The tensions would explode if given a inch of leeway, and he didn't know when he jumped which way he'd go or how hard he'd land. "-if I may be excused? You don't need me right now; I've given you everything you need..."

"Alright..." The raw hesitance in Alex's voice wasn't even enough of a goad to make Reeve lift his head up. "Get out of here Reeve, take a walk, settle your nerves. We'll send someone with you for your safety..."

 _Translation: We'll send someone with you so you don't run away_. Lip curling in bitterness, the executive managed a noise that sounded apreciative... or at least cognizant, then turned on his heel to walk out. When Reeve reached the door the President cleared his throat, and ever obedient, Reeve waited.

"Re."

That was a shock, enough of one that he lifted his head and actually _jerked_ in surprised. Alex was calling him by his old college nick-name, the friendly nominative was so strange it seemed alien. Never mind he hadn't heard that name for years, what made it so outré was the fact that Reeve hadn't been able to coincide "friendly" much less "compassionate" with Alexander Shinra for almost five years running.

"I know this is horrible but don't let the strain of these... events get to you. The company needs men like you, men less _effective_ than the Turks and more like yourself. Justice will be done, I know what we're doing in the meanwhile will inconvenience a lot of people, but we're saving lives Reeve, really, we-"

Once upon a time, so distant it pre-dated fable, they'd been two half grown men sharing dreams and ambition. "What do you want to do when you grow up" had been the demand they'd heard for the whole of their lives, and halfway "grown up" and they hadn't known. They could never dream that it would come down to this. But he still recalled his answer, even though he had long forgotten Alex's.

 _"All I want to do is make the world a better place_."

The taste of idealism was sweet as delusion, and as substantial as a mirage...

And the optimism that had fueled it was as dead as those poor people who'd dared stormed the Turk compound...

"Yes sir," Reeve responded dully, turning to face the door. It was a petty sanctuary, his turning away, but there was comfort in the inanimate. At least a door couldn't spin silken promises from moonbeams and air and make them seem inviting and livable. "Of course, _sir._ " His tone was heavy with disbelief, the irony of the title a spear point to his acidic overture. "May I be excused now?"

Silence met his demand; a pained soundless span that was broken for the convenience of speech.

"Yes, Mr. Tuesti, you are dismissed."

Alex it seemed had forgotten his promise from before, for he didn't even bother to call in a SOLDIER to play as guard. Aimlessly the half Wutia executive wandered the concrete halls. Not seeing a thing save a long grey blur. When the blur stopped, and became a shadowed corner he let his legs buckle with a moan. A half hour later an off duty SOLDIER spotted him crumpled in a corner, he was shaken roughly, then pulled to his feet. Oblivious to the wet lines that trailed down his cheeks or the bloodshot state of his eyes the SOLDIER all but dragged him to his room and threw him inside.

The click of the lock being pulled in place behind him was neither ominous nor comforting, merely expected.

 


	27. Equilibrium:  Luck and Reasons

Equilibrium:

Luck and Reason

 

 

 

_How does equilibrium relate to your life?_

_Why should the term "equilibrium" be used when the word "balance" serves the same purpose?_

He recalled those words. Each symbol was one in sameness, cast in bold type to allude to their importance. Years of seeing everything in the same font told him that the letters had been typed on a computer set on font size thirteen. He recalled the green paper the assignment had been printed upon. The edges were crumpled and worn from rolling and re-rollings that they sported a mess of hair fine cracks. Yet, to contrast with the ragged ware and tear, the edges had been softened to a mere feather down…

Pheonix downs, pooled at the feet of a broken crate… the local of the items was unknown, the accusations surrounding them guaranteed to rivet even the most TV hating resident of Midgar to the 'tube.

Five hours had come and gone, the hackers had been moderately successful or so it seemed. Pages of illicit trade deals with mild allusions of Shinra assistance had fallen into the media's hands. A group of suit wearing individuals were caught and executed for trying to break into the Shinra's bioengineering labs; a reporter had been caught amongst them, his camera still rolling even after he'd been shot at point blank. The camera had been destroyed of course, the footage burned, the bodies immersed in acid…

 _Male: 6'2'', silver hair, eyes blue, wearing blue suit like that the Turk's wore. Shinra Co. ID found in right pocket_.

_Code Name: Xeld_

_Race: xxxxxx_

The rest of the "report" was a mess of black-outed lines. With a frown of distaste Rufus flipped through the mess of illegible text, turned over the final page and considered the maimed body that was shown in a photograph. After a moment's pause he closed the old fashioned beige folder and handed it over to the executive to his right to pursue.

In the lull that the report sharing was causing he made a decision. Leaning forward he touched the pale and shaking head of Urban development's elbow. With a surprising jerk Reeve nearly hopped out of his seat at Rufus' touch.

"Wh.. what is it… Rufus?"

"The word equilibrium, is it an adjective or a noun?"

The pale half Wutia stared at Rufus, his brown eyes wide in shock. After the moment passed he answered in an oddly dead sounding tone.

"A noun, why?"

"Thank you."

Then, considering that the blank field of yellow pad paper wasn't going to be doing him any good staying blank the young Shinra fished into a trench coat pocket and after a moment produced a pen. Dark Nation, seeing that the item retrieved wasn't a treat let out a little huff of distaste and set his furred chin on Rufus' knee.

 _Equilibrium: (noun)_ was now set in the center of the page. Ink gilded by a point dripped down to fill each groove and pool in the chasms of each line with a fast drying stream of black. Satisfied that the blank page was blank no longer Rufus let a slight smile grace his features. He rolled the pen between his aching fingers and leaned back in the chair. Scarlet, his nearest neighbor gave him a veiled look of distaste. After all, by stretching out like a lay about he was encroaching on her personal space.

With a phony yawn he stretched, arms over his head, and took secret delight in almost stabbing her head with the pen in his left hand.

"So," he called out to the man at the head of the table. "When are we going to be having a cup of coffee and going over the death count of say… Heidegger's brother's family?"

At least the paper stopped being passed around. The man addressed, gave him a withering glare, those around him either favored him with looks of distaste or distrust.

"You're aplomb in this situation is hardly appropriate… _boy_." The President growled, his thick hands clenching.

"So's your wishy-washy inaction." Rufus countered with an airy shrug. "I've got other things to do then listen to you hash up the obvious and lie through your teeth. You're promising everything to everyone and not doing a damn thing besides."

With an amused smile crinkling his jagged features the head of bio-engineering and technological development turned to face the youngest in this confrontation. The light caught his glasses just so, washing out his watery eyes in a haze born of light on glass.

"And what," Hojo queered, his high pitched claws on steel voice raised an octave to convey his interest. "-would you suggest?"

"Listening to Tseng." Rufus answered bluntly. "He'll keep his promises, all of them, he always does. I guess it matters on what you want more; a few days of safety at the cost of a few hundred bodies in the street, or a reconciliation talk with minimal bloodshed."

Mouth working, as if chewing on hate, the elder Shinra swallowed hard. In the descending silence the motions of him choked on nothing but air and emotion seemed surreally loud. Arms crossed over his chest Rufus said nothing, merely watched, a wry smile graced the boy's face. The expression seemed so twisted with malice that it might have shattered the face that bore it. Alex's own visage was fast turning scarlet, and had nothing of composure about it. The silence around the table became charged, venomous, and it surged from the head to the foot like a poison laden bloodstream.

"You... you goddamn traitor... you Judus... I'll..." Surging to his feet, disgust and anger in every line of him, the President was standing and only a few feet separated him and his son.

The room was a bland affair, made lively by the people in it. Executives scattered, a fluttering of much needed color to the grey expanse. Hojo in white and blue ghost, Heidegger in his roundtound glory sheathed in militant cast green, Scarlet... in her scarlet dress, they all folded before one man's anger and slipped out of chairs and pushed away from the table. Wordlessly offering a path of least resistance.

Only one man sat, arms crossed, a living, breathing, navy blue blockade spurred on by the all powerful force of logic.

"Alex, he's got a point."

The president let out a primal growl and turned his crimson blotched face to Reeve.

"Yes, Alex, listen to your son. He might actually have a valid point." Rufus chimed in, he had pushed back his chair and was lazily leaning against the steel table.

" _You_ ," Reeve snapped, turning to face the young man he was defending, "shut up." With a wide _damn you all_ smirk Rufus let out a cold laugh and sat down. Satisfied for the moment, Reeve turned back to the President. His water rimmed, chocolate hued eyes held a world of sadness in their depths. "We've got more to lose than pride and less then ten hours to make our choice. We can lose everything to gain nothing, or we can use this situation to our advantage."

"You have one minute." Alex hissed, his eyes blazing.

"Open negotiations, talk to them, and bring plenty of SOLDIERS." Reeve suggested. "Hear what he has to say, I can't believe that this started with the firing of one man." Reeve shivered a bit at the cool glance that Heidegger cast Alex. "Turks aren't that vengeance driven. Tseng would _normally_ have the grace to bow out of his position, even if he felt he was being slighted, so that points to something abnormal afoot."

"You mean we should surrender-" Alex seemed to swell with rage, "-to the Turks. That I should run my company only at _their_ suffer-"

"Military force isn't going to get you anywhere." Rufus cut in. "They showed you that already by killing Heidegger's second in command and the man's family. A family who's so well protected that the paparazzi couldn't get to them. And we both damned well know how obsessive those bastards are! You can play war with the Turk's all you like, and Tseng will humor you by retaliating with guerilla strikes. You'll gain the public's support," Rufus added, in a rueful tone, "but the masses won't help, not against people who know Midgar inside and out and have more legal and illegal connections than Shinra and all it's opponents combined."

Shaking in fury Alex bared his teeth in a snarl. At last, in a tone as querious as his pose, he choked out three words. "Get out, now!"

Before Heidegger could enforce that order with an escort a phone shrilled.

X

Two men were crouched in the darkness. Obscured by the grey crusted fako greenery that ringed the upperplate's most prominent home they waited. One was quiet, well trained, an image of thoughtless discipline, his partner was in all ways opposite. From build to demeanor, they couldn't have been more opposing. The unifier was their hiding place, and the fact that faux leaves were tangled in their hair.

"Fuckin' awesome, flame throwers!" Cradling the weapon like it was precious, the young Turk let out a lusty purr of satisfaction. "We're gunna torch somethin' an' someone, I _love_ this job!"

"Reno, shut up." Snapped the Turk paired with him.

The kid was a newb, a rookie, but wasn't as bad a shoot as Rookie. Still, Kiddo was shaking like a kiddie on his first killing run. That annoyed Reno enough that he stopped hugging the flamethrower.

"Butch, easy man, I'm not gunna torch _us_ , what's the problem?"

"I hate fire," The black clad Turk confided, hugging himself as if he was coming down with a case of hypothermia or something. "-and Tseng deliberately paired me with a damn pyro. Just my luck!"

"Yo, Kiddo." Deciding he liked the flavor of Kiddo more than the kid's real name Butch, the red haired Turk rolled the new nominative like he'd roll beer on his tongue. And any who'd drunk with Reno knew that there was no roll at all, one fast guzzle and a laugh when his brain became unhinged around the edges. Anyway, what twisted mother f-er named their firstborn Butch? Clearly the kid had come from an affection starved home and needed some cosseting. Since Heidegger didn't care for his Turks the impulsive red head decided then and there he'd coax Kiddo to the "blue side", maybe if the kid survived his initiation Reno would go back to occasionally calling him Butch. The mere thought of "initiation" made the red head crack one of his famous wide wild smiles. "You're one of Heidegger's stoggies, huh? You've never worked with Tseng before, have ya?"

Warming to that wide smile and slightly crazed eyes, the brown haired Turk mutely shook his head.

Draping an arm around the kid, Reno pulled the junior Turk in close. He dropped his voice as if he was confiding the secret of the century.

"To Tseng there aint luck. Karma, chi, ki, and all that crap, yeah, but he says "no" to luck."

"No to luck." The younger Turk parroted numbly.

"Hell yeah! I musta done something real kick ass in my last life to get so much good karma this time around." Reno added. He let Kiddo go with a chuckle that was shyly returned "Ever see me wasted playin' poker? I always win, never works if I'm sober, but when I'm drunk..."

"If that's an invitation..." Butch began.

"Yeah?" Reno prompted, never one to indulge in a half second's melodrama, he just wasnt' patient enough for it. "If it's a 'tation"

"I'll take you up on it." Butch concluded with a grin.

X

Hands dipped into pockets, even Reeve dropped his protective stance to fish into his vest pocket. At last, after a moment of confusion, Alex came up with the ringing phone. After a second's pause spent to look at it dumbly, the fat man opened it and placed it to his ear.

" _What_." He all but spat out the salutation.

"Yo Mr. President boss-man, this is Reno, from the Turks. Tseng's taken it bad, you offing off Xeld and Gerald like that, so we're here to even accounts. Say goodbye to the _leet_ lounge ya got set up outside the tower. Oh, and that pretty sec. you were shackin' up with, she's gunna be toast soon too, 'less you wanna say... talk to my boss?"

A fresh wave of fury stained his face crimson, the pupils of his eyes became mere pin pricks.

"Don't you _dare_!" The president howled, his thick jowls quivering in pure indignation.

Around the table executives looked at each other in confusion. Even Rufus facade of indifference cracked a bit around the edges. His ice blue eyes glittered with interest.

"Say bye bye to your Midgar mansion than, yo!"

"WAIT!" The scream that erupted from the President seemed more suited to a man having his masculinity ripped off with white hot tongs. "Wait, I'll, damn it..."

Eyes all around him were curious, various levels of interest were shown, but the interest was universal. Gnashing his teeth Alex Shinra let out a growl.

"...put Tseng on the line."


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Rather dark, another (hopefully the last) borderline M chapter. It's incredibly flash back heavy as well as Tseng centric...

Equilibrium:

A Matter of Funerals

 

 

 

He'd been to a number of funerals in his life, he'd listened to dirges played on organs so loud that they'd made his bones shake, and attended quiet ceremonies that had no music at all. Faces of friends and associates had stared at him, some with open glassy eyes some with their eyes forced closed. Limbs had been folded in various poses, death locked arms crossed over the chest or merely left to lie at the side. All had been sheathed in wood and set in the ground, that most of all had been one of the unifying factors in all the ceremonies.

_A box in the ground…_

Pews were a common occurrence in Continental theological designated buildings. He'd sat in them, set his knees on the span designated for kneeling, and during one remarkably lengthy ceremony he'd even flipped through a book of sacred someone had left jammed in the back of one of the pews. The text had been… moderately interesting, and he'd been mildly surprised to catch historical references between the decree laden segments.

_Say some final words, of farewell, or remorse…_

Emotions were laid bare. Tears freely shed. Speakers lined up in obsessively straight lines. To the body and back to the pews. Sometimes people spoke while those approached; sometimes music played wordlessly, sometimes the only accompaniment was a grief laden silence. Incense burned, wafted from white sticks in grey tinged wisps. And like the Continental religion itself, the scent was a sweet laden affair, neither subtle nor mild. He'd been to enough funerals in his life to grow to hate the smells of sweets that the Continentals adored. Too much the same, the incense and say… a bit of sugared bread…

_A casket lowered gently, with reverence, into the bosom of the "compassionate" planet…._

He hated the smell, it made him sick, and now he endured it again, but not at Rufus' insistence nor to bid a fighting comrade off with a final farewell. Silence on silence, till quiet redoubled. Those in power were being stubborn… or rather the man at their head was being asinine. Oddly, that had been expected, almost anticipated, and when tasks had been laid bare like facts he'd taken this one for himself.

_Dirt thrown on the closed lid, a terra firma slap to the face…_

To a man who valued earthly pleasures and things, the heart was made of stone, but like any mere rock, it was surprisingly accessible. The stone heart could drown in a sea of inconvenience, starve on a diet of hardship, and be tortured by the mere destruction of one pleasure. So, to break the head that was ruled by his gut one must merely attack the various pleasures, house and home were the key points to the Shinra's pride. So house and home would be the first things to go. Knowledge learned in the long years of service had told him he best send _his_ best and most destructive to see to the little matter of arson.

Then to let the potential loser of house and hearth know what was to occur before it happened.

One blow a rap to the knuckles, one felt in the core, then the real beating would begin. Then he would see how much Alex Shinra could and would endure. It would be an interesting spectacle, entertaining, and well deserved.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Tseng exhaled harshly, trying to disperse the scent of clinging liquefied sugar. Compared to that yellow tinged bee's den the splatters of blood and the iron tang that had filled his nostrils during his earlier job were wholesome. The gun in his holster was still warm, like a lovers hand on his side, the cold sword strapped to his back a blatant reminder of his heritage, and add the twist of contrast he was still clothed in his work uniform. Blue business suit with the occasional red dot, had the ignorant passerby had dared ask he'd claim overzealous shaking of an unorthodox pen. Granted even the most innocent would see the Wutia katana slung over his shoulder, the gun holster to his side, then turn tail and bolt.

They would if they were wise anyways.

Fishing out a notebook from his pants pocket, the half Wutia consulted the list, each item bore a swift line through it, save one.

"Mutilation…" He sighed the word, the flash of distaste it caused curling his lips into a mute snarl before he could control himself. "Or rather, " _a_ _Turk's_ _trademark brutality"_. There are still times I could hate you Veld, even after all these years."

A few moments' later he ducked back into the sweet smelling building then was out again, bringing out the oddest of orders. Infinitely glad that he'd made his kill close enough to the bakery's back door that he'd only had to endure a few breaths of that sugar laced air he dragged the primary chief's body into the alley. It hit the pavement with a dull thump; the pudgy man's face was so bland as to be unremarkable even though that very face was death locked into an expression of shock. Actually, if a man's face could be said to inspire boredom than this pastry chief's did so. The man's sugar white face was so bland that Tseng let out a little yawn just looking at him. The job was distasteful, he didn't take pleasure from killing civilians…. But when in the Turk's one did what one must for the organization.

Pulling the long blade from its sheathe that was strapped to his back, the half Wutia Turk circled the body. And even as his feet went through the gyrations of a slowly closing looping path his mind circled the various options before him. At last, deciding that simplicity was best –it wouldn't pay him to be caught after all- Tseng approached the middle aged man's body. As he lifted his sword the headset that he'd cunningly designed to look no more damning than a music lover's mp3 player let out a little beep.

The slight tilt of his head and a one shouldered shrug brushed the button set on the , turning the device "on" and allowed him to work unimpeded.

"Tseng speaking."

The blade was aligned, he let it fall, all the strength in his arms guiding the steel.

"Tseng... this is... President Shinra."

The body quivered once as the head was sliced free, his surprise was such the strike veered a bit. The blow that should have left a clean line faultered a bit. He frowned down at the slanted line, the harsh angle, and the jagged bit of white bone that poked out from the raw stump that served as the dead man's neck.

_A blistering fan fare of ballista. Only one funeral had sported such... The roar of ballista going off had made him jump despite all his training. His hand drifted to the gun at his side, his grip was so hard that his hand began to ache in response. Pulse hammering in his throat, he was surprised out of his numb state of self-recrimination by the blaze of a 21 gun salute._

"Good afternoon, Mr. President." Tseng murmured. Satisfied his mission was complete he wiped the katana on a unblooded span of his victim’s apron. Sheathing the blade Tseng did what he could to obscure the hilt with the over long black trench he wore. The hilt was still visible, he couldn't and wouldn't do a thing about it. His manner was crisp, business like, as he strolled from the alley. A moment later and he was on the street, walking down a street on the upper plates fourth quadrant, he listened with respectful silence for the President's reply. Content that the owner and chief of Alex Shinra's favorite pastry shop was now irrevocably dead (phoenix downs could only do so much after all) and that the recipe of Alex Shinra's favorite sweets were gone with their creator, Tseng considered his petty vengeance to be complete and was more amiable to talk than he would have been... say this morning.

_Ceremony had always seemed a waste, the earth was savage and uncaring so why set one of her children who'd transcended the status of mere beast into the earth with any pomp and circumstance? Why bother? He looked past the body, beyond the casket, his eyes caught the light of sun on steel, he watched the long forms of the rifles rise against the sun. He watched that glint of false gold so fixedly that his eyes began to water._

_Another blistering fanfare of gun fire. He winced, turned away, the sound too much for his sore conscience..._

_Too much the same, those gun shots... The sound of his remembrance rang in his ears loudly. Present and past twined together in an insidious dance..._

"I want to open communications. None of us know who you're damned contact is so... let's say I'm taking advantage of an opportunity."

"Opportunity is rare and finicky." Tseng noted, neither complying nor declining.

"So is negotiation."

Abruptness and candor from a politician? Tseng's lips quirked a bit in one corner. if Rufus were here to advise him the young man would have said that bluntness was a sign of either surrender or absolute power. Either Alex Shinra was folding a hell of a lot earlier in the game than Tseng had expected or the President was more delusioned than the Turk had thought.

That or it all could be a trap, he considered that possibility, and as he did so his stomach let out a most uncivilized growl. The air was a bit nip, though the sky was a grey akin to ash streaked cement. Rubbing his arms together in an attempt to hold onto his warmth the Turk allowed the quirk of a corner spread.

"Is that an offer, Mr. President?" The Turk asked archly.

"It is." The reply was more of an ursine growl than words.

This defiantly was a trap, and Tseng had to walk into it, openly, aware, and damned for the knowing.

_Questions lodged in the back of his throat. He wanted to ask the boy so much, and the death forged silence made his most forefront questions unsuitable. He could beseech the stone, hope, and listen in vain. At best his conscience would answer with a scathing retort that he was a fool, at worst his id would hear his longings and act upon them with delusion._

_He'd never hated the job. Never really cared about the killings. A hit meant that he'd get odd looks when he took his bloody uniform in to a Wutia drycleaners, it hadn’t meant anything else. And now, seeing that trait he understood, and with revelation came pain. He didn't care for anyone, he had held the forums of loyalty to the Turk's out of respect for his mentor. But Veld was as good as dead, and this boy was an_ outsider, _the boy shouldn't have mattered. Yet he had, even now, as they were putting guns at ease and the body was being lowered he_ ached

_Memories rose in a agonizing tide that would have done Leviathan proud._

_An arm slung over his shoulders, a warm grin._

_"So you're the Turk being set with me. Nice ta meet ya!"_

_"Sung... what kinda name is that?" Another smile, wider than the last. "Whatever, I'm Zack, SOLDIER extraordinaire!"_

_Recalling his report Tseng's lips had curled into a scathing smile. "Ah... the Third class boy, yes I recall your papers..."_

_"Phht, Third class shmird class... I'll go up the ranks in a jiff, you'll see. Hey how 'bout a bet, I'll bet fifty gil that I make First before you become head of... whatever department you suit spy’s call home?"_

_The smile was inviting, the boy's eyes were wide, and though querulous the tone was play laden. To all that Tseng shoved his hands into his pockets and looked past the boy's shoulder. This SOLDIER was younger than Tseng, though the "boy" sported more years to his chronological age than Tseng could lay claim to._

_"Shall we be off?" He offered instead. Refusing to accept the bet. A faint flush touched his cheeks, a hint of shame, for a warrior of Shinra to be acting like a child was as abhorrent a thought as say... a rolin from legend getting drunk instead of doing great deeds..._

_"Well." Sounding disappointed Zack let out a sigh, "I guess you suits are stiffs."_

_His mouth opened before his reason could control it._

_"I don't bet small money, only large sums."_

_"Well so that's how it is!" Amusement warmed the disappointment, thawed it, and evaporated in a second flat. "Small money huh? How about a thousand gil than?"_

_Tseng stopped, his face flabbergasted. A thousand gil was a month's paycheck for a rookie Turk, and despite all his airs the half Wutia wasn't any more seasoned than this SOLDIER rookie..._

_"Make it two." Secretly Tseng prayed to Da-cho and Levianthon to make the black haired warrior balk. To make the boy see such sums and see the consequences and try to bail out. If he did... Well not only would Tseng be free of any obligation but he'd also have the pleasure of watching the upstart boy flounder in an attempt to save pride and dignity._

_"Shee-it" Letting out a low whistle with the profanity, the young SOLDIER then laughed. "You spy-boy's don't play nice, do you?"_

_"Turk." Tseng corrected coldly._

_"Whatever." The smile was back, and as wide as before. "Fine, you're on."_

_Damn damn damn... Tseng wanted to swear, to curse, to do_ something _save stand like a dignified idiot. But training overrode want, as orders would override desire._

_Why did you die? How could you go into that death trap willingly, knowingly, with a smile? All you had to do was leave the boy, I arranged it as such. You could have just let him go and ran, there wouldn't have been pursuit, I'd have seen to it._

Smiling at the irony of it all Tseng let out a bark of a laugh. "Give me twenty four hours to recall my people, gather them up, then you'll be contacted again with further instructions Mr. Shinra." He hung up before the President could reply, than considering his growling stomach the Turk decided to see to lunch.

 


	29. Equilibrium: Chromatic

Equilibrium: Chromatic; the degrees of

He was a figure cast in blue, his face so pale that it seemed otherworld, perhaps even disconnected… The blue wasn't a hue of the sky, rather a shade shy of the navy hue. She, in contrast, wore nothing but black. Black pants, black tie, black shirt… even sporting a black undershirt.

Monochromatic wasn't the word for it, it was too mild, to prim and proper, for something that could have been counted on as an obsession…

Or rather desperation.

She'd fought her way into the Turks and a mere mistake in record keeping had set off all her internal alarms. Her… rank was minimal; and she wasn't deluded by the illusion that mere entry was a safe guard against "accidents".

Young, idealistic, optimistic, yes, she was all those things, but she drew a firm line against the category of fool. Someone was making a fool of her, and it wasn't by hapstance. She wore the uniform and did the work she was permitted, yet all the doors to her superiors were like the ears of an estranged monarch, closed, barred, and guarded. Despite a month of toil nothing had changed, then had come the accident. She'd been listlessly pawing through papers on this and that, then out of a fit of boredom had decided to look up her files on the company computer.

That was when everything had gone wrong.

"Miss?" One eyebrow was raised to match the query. The blue clad man's voice had a breath of an accent to it, unidentifiable to her untrained ears. He sat on the other side of the table, the lengthwise span separated them, yet that difference did nothing to lessen the power of his black gaze.

Unblinking, inhuman, he had been onyx still, only the rise and fall of his chest telling her that he was alive.

Shaking her head, the young Turk let her lips quirked. "Sorry… I'm not gone…. I'm just going over everything again, just to be sure."

"Then, clearly, you aren't a Turk." The man's slanted eyes thinned as if in distaste. "Doubt, insecurity, I'd have dismissed you for such faults before training was done. Yet, you passed; you dress as a Turk and play the role well enough to fool those outside our organization. The Shinra name tag and ID are authentic, so someone in authority let you through."

Having it put that way… She flushed, her eyes snapped to the wooden length between them, preferring to look at it than those eyes. Black pits, they drank in the light and her words without mercy.

"You also possess little to no self-control," the Turk noted in tones that told her that he was talking to himself, not to her, "a damning trait for any save a _child_."

The soft hiss that the last came in told her that it was anything but a compliment. She'd expected this though, to be slapped down, to be interrogated, and humiliated. She'd heard of this man, they called him soulless, a demon. Yet he was her superior, not Heidegger, she knew that now.

"I'm _working_ on it." She snapped. "It's not like I was trained well or anything. They just threw me in the classes, said they'd partner me up with someone, and then let me go…" Face growing hotter she clenched and unclenched her chilled hands. "They never did, when I asked why not… This happened."

" _This_ is an abstract, not a concrete." Came the lightly accented reprimand. " _This_ gives me nothing to work on, nothing to work with."

So she told him what this was, in short she told him the story of her last six months. Her requisites were spare, and the most lacking were in the combat oriented skills. Hashing up her interview with Hiedegger she relived again the embarrassment of being told to be a good girl and play at secretary. Her spirited defiance against the humiliating suggestion that she all but prostitute herself for a part time place at the foot of his desk was what had prompted Heidegger to cut her a deal. Quick training, classes only, then he'd throw her onto a Turk's beat and let her pick up what she could on her own. She'd never held a gun in her life, not once, materia was an alien concept to her, she only knew of it though the second hand stories of war vets…

Her story went on and on. From the sham of her training to the painful hazing that Heidegger's Turks had put her through, from the "accident". On her first job her partner had been killed, he'd unthinkingly taken a bullet for her, never even knowing that the sniper had been one of Heidegger's own men with express orders to kill "the nuisance". Her own investigations and subtle questions at the man's funeral had shaken that much out at least... nothing concrete like sign and sealed papers. But in the Turks' you never got that lucky, not when you were a Rookie and the man who wanted you bumped off was an Executive.

Only at that point had the black eyed man across from her had cut in. And the quiet fury that made his voice quake made her look up. His eyes were mere slits, his lips a pressed line, a faint flush of anger made his cheeks actually seem… well _human_.

"The name, of the man that was killed?"

"Jerrik Kalm, sir."

"Continue." He snarled.

So she had. Coming to the last of it after a few more moments. There had been another accident of sorts, yet even a Turk engineered accident could have a flaw…

"My name wasn't in the system, my birth information was taken out of the city files, if that isn't a precursor to a Turk elimination I don't know what is."

To that statement the ice of his displeasure thawed a bit, and the deadly grimness eased so that he could flash her a wry smile around it. He did so, amused at the vehemence, the surety, in her shaking voice.

"Amazing, you have a working instinct after all."

"Self-preservation’s universal." She muttered, dropping her gaze to better study the table's grain.

"Foresight and sense, however, are not."

She made no comment, to believe or disbelieve him. She waited in sullen silence to be dismissed. Her foot absently sung back and forth to lazily kick at the nearest leg of his desk. Imagining a fat hairy ass at the end of each kick cheered her a little; she smirked a bit at her childishness and kicked harder, imagining steel cleats instead of the polished ladies shoes she was wearing. He must have felt the kicks, last she looked he'd set his arms on the table so that his fingers could meet and twine about like a nest of serpents. He cleared his throat to break the silence between kicks, and to the sound she respectfully stopped.

"What all _can_ you do?"

"Oh for the love of… not another fake interview!" With an oath she shot to her feet, her lips curled in a snarl. She paced in front of his desk, refusing to leap across it and go for his throat like she wanted to. "I'm damned tired of you people dragging me around the nose, of the lot of you saying one thing than doing something else."

"Welcome to a world where the corporate meets politics." The Turk murmured.

 _That_ jolted her out of her fit. His criticism was like water to the face, and she shook her head like she was shaking off a bit of cold water out of her hair. Finally sobered out of her rage she let out only a minimal growl of vexation and threw herself into it, never mind how the thing creaked.

"Normally, when you start an interview, don't you ask the applicant's name?" She huffed.

"Fine, if that will appease your Continental sense of propriety I will fold. I am Tseng of the Turks, and you are?"

"Elena."

"Now then, Ms. Elena," He leaned forward, and it took all of her will power not to cringe back, she did not like the look in his eyes. His gaze was flat, uncompromising, and far too snake like for her comfort. "-why do you want to be a Turk?"

She was almost offended. His tone was like that of an over indulgent parent asking what you wanted to be when you grew up. Only those black pit eyes kept her anger in check, there was nothing or warmth of affection in them, nothing at all.

Opening her mouth she had told him, he listened patiently as she fumbled through reasons and excuses and at last came to the truth. The "I don't know" hung between them like a damning recrimination, and the desperation of her own straits that she tried to obscure must have seemed all the more obvious for her lack of emphasis. He was again a man of stone, onyx and marble, as he watched her with unblinking slanted eyes. Time went on, and when he at last seemed satisfied at her flustered state, he moved on. Tseng demanded to see her credentials. They weren't many, a fourth of a page filled out in her own hand. He scanned over the list -mainly contacts and information on the middle class, as well as a degree in computer programing- then set it aside.

"Unsatisfactory, through and through." He said coldly, with a negligent clench of his fingers he destroyed her resume and left it on the table between them.

That was the final straw. Something in her snapped, and she cast her humility and shame to the earth and came up with rage. "You're just going to let them kill me then!"

Nothing, silence, and a gaze that looked through words he told her that he considered her so low that she didn't exist.

Her hands were shaking as she danced on the fine line between mindless rage and tear laden hysterics. Finally, she stood, pushed back the chair, and looked down on him.

"They can _try_ to kill me." She whispered. "But I swear I'll take as many of your people down with me as I can."

She turned on her heel before her shattered composure would lead to a shattered expression. Tears wouldn't avail her against a man who didn't even have a soul. He revealed nothing, looked up at her, and she had the creepy sensation that his black eyes were film, recording everything, forgiving 's stride was a hurried thing designed to get her out before the Turk pulled a gun from under his desk and deflated with her attitude with a bullet to the back. She was at the door before that cold as ice voice stopped her.

"I expect you to report to my office at noon tomorrow."

"F... for what!" She snapped, turning to face him. She froze, heart in her throat, as she saw he had a gun out and it was pointed at _her_.

"For Turk appropriate training, "Tseng murmured. There came a click from the gun, and Elena felt her heart stop. Frozen in mindless terror, she waited with wide eyes for the pain of a bullet sinking into her chest, but that sound was only a precursor of the bottom of the hand holding part of the weapon to open. A small rectangular box slid out of the holster, hit the table with a dull thunk. Face bearing a small frown, the Turk set the weapon down then looked up. "What are you still doing here? Didn't I dismiss you?"

X

_"We Turks have our own departments, branches, factions... Think of me as President of the Turks, my underlings have addressed me as such in jest before."_

She'd actually laughed a bit at that. A glimmer of humor from a soulless empty mind, it had been too droll for gaze had flicked to her, his lips had quirked, but he never dared to smile. Not to a rookie, not before training was complete. Fifty percent of the youngsters taken into the Turk's had to be executed for failure, training made it impossible for them to be integrated into a normal society.

Not without turning convict or murderer, and the Turk's had an image to protect. She'd been told this on entering and she'd shrugged off the threat in those words.

"I've got nowhere else to go."

Tseng had nodded to her candor. Saluted it by giving her a moment of undivided attention, and had waited for her to elaborate with the patience of the over trained. When she hadn't spilled her life story for his perusal he didn't seem bitter or annoyed, merely nodded to her to indicate respect and had let the matter drop. Unlike a Contenental man who would have curled up and died before accepting a weakness or confessing to one he knew what it was to be weak, to have no other place.

She wasn't suited for fighting, too old to train, too young to bloody, such contradictions hadn't come from Tseng's lips, but rather the hard eyed individuals he'd delegated her training to.

"You understand your mission, Ms. Elena?" Tseng had asked before departing.

"Yes, Mr. President, sir."

The smile was years in coming, but he did indulge her before leaving. Her first "mission" was to return the helicopter to the news station, the second was to play the media contact. Both were dangerous roles, both would demand that she stay in the open without support, all Heidegger would have to do to kill her would be to send a SOLDIER squad to the Makometropolous' headquarters. She'd take them down, as many of Heidegger's people down with her as she could...

That hadn't changed, and seeing the glint of steel in her eyes, the world's a good place be damned I'll take you all with me, glimmer, Tseng had laughed. He'd laughed, and saluted her, then business had resumed. Tseng had helped ease Veld from the 'chopter, and she'd gone his way, he his.

His parting expression seemed to be etched in her 'slips had curled, the snake look was gone, discarded. Like a distasteful mask, the Turk aloofness was tossed to the dark and disinterest had parted to reveil the human underneath. Animated, alive, he'd eased Veld down with utmost courtesy, no ice involved. He'd looked up at her and seen her stubborn streak and let out a quiet laugh of appreciation.

"Keep in touch." He ordered.

Her face warmed under his obvious concern. "Yes Tseng."

"I'll contact you as needed."

She'd nodded, her tongue a morass of confusion, tangling on the need to say something important, meaningful. But in the end she said nothing at all.


	30. A Cup of Joe

Equilibrium:

A Cup of Joe

 

He awoke to the beeping at his wrist. Not allowing himself the luxury of true sleep he had drowsed, catching his rest in moments, fragments of hours. Blinking away the last remnants of Morpheus' influence he stood and stretched. His jaws gapped so far they ached, but his mouth wasn't the only thing that hurt. His head ached, his back let little red lined of agony run up and down it's length and width. Overall this experience was a charming way to 'greet the day'. Running a hand through his messy filthy hair, he spared a moment of his privacy rubbing at the small of his spine.

Now, properly cognizant, greeted the grey world with it's lightly greyer "dawn" with a curse and a groan.

Last night could be summed up -at best- as unpleasant.

 _Bullets hissed though the air. Holding his gun in his hands he had bolted, diving for the choicest bits of cover, abandoning each sanctuary when it was hole riddled. In the rare opportunities he had turned, answered steel for steel, and never mind if the blow had landed. Survival was priority and so he had run. Braving the dark dead tunnels, going deeper and deeper, he got to see first hand the deteriating state of the rail way. Scrambling over rusting metal lines, body ducked down, he wove and rolled, dove for cover that he could only sense and not truly_ see

The clock read it to be four thirty, time to wake up and go to work. He limped with each step. His leg sported a ripped pant leg and a long red-brown line that oozed a more vibrant red hue. Residue from a mad leap that had ended badly, his leg had buckled from the impact and he'd felt a sharp pain… Wet warmth had trickled from the wound, but it had been too dark to see how deep or where exactly the scrap of steel had made the gash. Ripping off his tie he'd made a crude –and laughable- bandage of sorts before pressing on. That bandage flapped, like some pathos inducing crippled bird, with each step.

His hair was no longer bound, as was his want. Had he paused to fins a mirror his own reflection would have annoyed him. Grim caked his face, his clothes were dulled with dust and made more vibrant in spots due to the heavy application of sweat. He ran a muddy hand through his hair and sighed in distaste. Annoyance, unlike vulnerability, was a passing thing.

And more importantly it was four o' six now, if he didn't want to be late he needed to get a move on.

So limp and all he left the ally. The brick wall with it's side guards -two decrepit old buildings who leaned upon one another, touched roof to roof like two people might touch hand to hand- had served him all. The intertwining of the shingles above had made a good roof even, and that was more than most in this part of town could lay claim too. Holding the sword of his ancestor's at the ready he regretfully sheathed the gun he'd cradled in his hands the whole night. No matter the long weapon's power, it held only one bullet, and that bullet must be saved.

Fishing the small phone from his front pocket Tseng considered the lines on it's glass face. Only one bar remained; he let out a little noise of vexation, he had hopped the charge would hold for longer, but he'd make due with one bar. Like the last bullet the final dredge of energy was precious.

And in the slums, you guarded what was precious to you, life was secondary.

_"'Seng-sama, what the hell happened to you?"_

_"I need sanctuary, now!"_

_Bullets hissed behind him, the elderly woman didn't ask questions, the door was opened then closed behind him. Like all the other doors on the middle class district it slid shut soundlessly, with nary a swish to betray it had been opened. The woman threw herself in the lock, it slammed shut, and he slumped against the counter, taking deep breaths. He'd been running for a half hour straight at last time check, he needed this break._

_The familiar scents of Wutia cooking teased his nostrils, bringing nostalgia and nausea in equal doses._

_He gulped down his sickness like a bitter tea, and the old woman looked at him in shock. She took in his sweat darkened clothes and wild tousled hair, then said with characteristic Wutia irony..._

_"Bad day at work?"_

_He dredged up a smile for the woman who could have been Wutia save that her blood wasn't Wutai at all. Still, she had the mannerisms, the accent, she spoke the tongue. It was a pleasant side affect from her taking care of so many Wutia children in her life. She never lay claim to them, not through papers or true adoption, but her door was always opened to the needy, Sector born or not. He closed his eyes, just savoring the sound of someone speaking his language without the horrid Continental stutter._

_"To say the least."_

_From adoor away, so close it sounded as if it was_ this _door, there came a loud pounding._

_"SOLDIER first class enforcers, open up!"_

_He opened his eyes in time to see her response to the horror he'd tracked on her step. She went pale, with good reason; she shook, for better reason. He smiled to that fear, not a fool enough to believe that any mere gesture on his part would alleviate it._

_"Food, water, then a door, if I dare impose." He murmured._

_She reached for him, pulled him away from the counter and dragged him into a side room._

_"Stay here." She ordered._

_He nodded, not one to disobey._

With a sword in his hands and murder written in the black expanse of his eyes only the most suicidal and desperate would challenge him. Unfortunately in the lower levels of poverty and Midgar there were those in aplenty. Though his legs shook he walked, using the wall as a prop. The still warm gun was slipped in it's holster, the sword's point was dragged in the filth and grim, leaving a thin furrow in the ground to mark his path. He stepped carefully over a blue clad body that was sprawled the mouth of the alley, faintly recalled pulling the trigger in one of his half awake period's. True to training he had shot first, asked no questions later, and had fallen asleep with a clean conscience after.

In essence, and in fact, he had reaffirmed his status as a Turk.

He smiled, a tight thing serving as his gesture of mirth in this glorious pain wracked morning. Some opportunist had already snatched the boots off the cooling corpses' feet. Leaving the SOLDIER to play guard with glassy eyes and a final "at attention" pose that only rigorous-mortos could impart, he whistled an old Wutia tune. At peace with himself and the world.

_In his ears rang a colophony of sound, orders, hoots, reports. He trudged the vocal morass, listening to all and holding fast to the vital bits and pieces. Then, with the touch of a button, he swapped "stations" listening than issuing orders. His contact was quiet, unlike everyone else in the President's de-facto office. He'd winced when the fight had started, but through the grimace he managed a smile._

_Clearly Rufus had mastered Wutai if he could swear that well in it._

_Blows had sounded, a low growl had obscured everything on his end, than one barked order had cut through the static. And with that order he knew that his contact and charge were on their own from here on out. If they had found some way to stay in the thick of things he could have dared to risk man power for a rescue, but now that they were being forced into obscurity than he'd have to let them go and rely on hope._

One call later and the Turk information branch was set to resurrecting destroyed firewalls. A few curt orders delivered put a stand still to the various de-constructive projects that were going underway. Propaganda would still, reporters would cease writing mid word on threat of death. The tongues of the people would not stop running on his whim however. And no amount of gil would make him dare that stunt. Silence the people, forbad them even to vent, and rebellion would sprout overnight. And a war between the wealthy and the poor would be an ugly all consuming fight that would destroy the whole social order of Midgar.

Let SOLDIER deal out genocide. Make them earn their pay. Tseng and his Turks would remain neutral, as always.

He had one final call to make, and he considered his watch. It was currently four o' six, not quite time to clock in. He'd put it of for a little longer. Though each step was a stagger, and each motion left a small red splatter behind, he pressed on. At this rate it would take a half an hour to find his favored coffee shop, from there and in relative comfort and safety he'd conduct the last of his business for the day.

At the door he leaned heavily against the door frame, the door was open, just like any other day. Rejuv was open twenty four hours, and though located on the borderline of the slums it was well kept. The walls were a dull beige the shingles of the shop's over hand might have sported a color once upon a time ago. Now they were caked in grey soot, the familiar miasma of smoke, dirt, and caffeine teased his senses. He needed healing materia, he needed a week off after this, but more than all of that a Cup of Joe (as the Continentals called it)sounded good right now. Details were a blur, like the borderline of his vision. He was faintly aware of a weight in his left hand, of the _scree_ of steel dragging on tile. He came out of his daze long enough to hear the gasp of shock as the store's owner when the man saw him...

From a haze of exhaustion born non-caring his own voice sounded. His orders were to the effect that no one was to call the enforcers, then blessed blankness crashed down. He came to full awareness when the person who helped him walk to the nearest chair eased him down with an obvious lack of skill. A jolt of pain went through his body as he was seated, he gasped in pain and mustered up a glare of sorts. To that the timid brown haired woman set a cup besides him then skittered off like the creature her hair made him think of. Then, he was alone, no one came near him, and Tseng guessed he had a half an hour to finish his drink and leave before the enforcers made their appearance.

So he indulged in slow sips, ruminating on vengeance for a time. He'd pay Shinra back, with interest, yesterday's spree of assault, murder, and sabotage, had been pay back for the two dead thus far. Those accounts had come back even, but for _his_ pains and agonies, _his_ humiliations... he'd have to think up something most spectacular to even out those scales.

One blow, he decided, one strike to hit the heart, then he'd withdraw and take his "place" as the Shinra Company's left hand man. His immunity -for after this the President would not dare strike at any Turk, much less the Turk's head- would make that one blow rankle more than a protracted campaign. Let Heidegger take the right hand, let him bask in glories over victories won a decade and a half ago.

Tseng knew that his Turks were more valuable than any SOLDIER. They weren't defunct for one thing, weren't reduced to mere policing in the peace-time...

Upon leaving he thanked his server with words, but more important than words he'd left a tip.

A torn slip of paper, really. The page was Shinra white so that the faded red insignia at it's heart seemed more vibrant. The slip sported a few lines, his name was cast in the classic Wutia symbols, the numbers were forged in blockish continental even a simpleton could read...

Two thousand gil to be precise, in the memo he'd scrawled, _the result of a bet_ , and he left the civilians to puzzle out his meaning.


	31. Equilibrium: Counterbalance

Equilibrium:

Counter-balance

_True balance is a fantasy, or perhaps a delusion born of the scientific bent. In an academic setting there are tools of balance. One, the scale, has several parts; the weight, the scale's twin pedestals (or devices of weighing), and (lastly) the counter balance…._

_Without a biased original… a point of reference, there is no meaning to anything. (A) -calculation is pointless, values nothing but computer born scribbles, and without something to compare, contrasting is but (a) delusion._

_The item deemed "stable", the thing that which serves to highlight the difference between two variables. That is, for purpose of this paper "the balance", but the item which contrasts it is (again) for purposes of this essay, the counter-balance is the factor that may or may not be stable... The unknown…_

He hadn't bothered to even drag himself to the bed this time. His lip was split, his head rung. Despite the cliché there were bells ringing in his head, and his pulse was the hammer striking in a one-two staccato beat that made him want to hurl. The Fat Man wasn't feeling merciful and he wasn't even thinking straight. The last meeting had been hell, and it had ended with a heated demand that the "leak" step forward.

Even if he were –which he wasn't- stepping forward was the same as asking to get the crap beat out of you. Common sense had made him stay still and keep his head down. Stupidity born arrogance (or was it pride?) in the whole situation that wasn't of his own making had made him smirk. He'd made no bones about his friendships with the Turks, had flippantly talked of going out to the bar with Reno, with taking shooting lessons from Tseng as a child. When fights were the norm in school and he'd taken the worst of it Rude had pulled him aside for a "talk" that had ended with Rufus learning how to fight with his fists. He wasn't a whole Turk, he hadn't gone through the whole training with the lot of them, but the feeling of closeness was mutual. Rookie Truks would tease him about his so-so shooting records that were posted on the Turk intermediate boards. During slow days he had taken coffee breaks at the Turk compound, finding the quiet and somber manners and dress of the Turk's more suitable than the gaudy clothes and ways of his co-workers.

Killing was the heart of a Turk's "shop talk", and he listened to it with equanimity that others would have found chilling. But being a member of a corporate, he knew the depths people would fall to rise in power. Compared to the back stabbing world of business the Turk's world of espionage and murder was blessedly straight forward. As for the cries of "feeding off the innocent" there weren't any innocents. Money itself was tainted, unclean. One single slip of gil could have passed from the hands of the worker to the prostitute. The idea of "clean money" was hypocritical thinking at its peak.

Obliviousness existed however, and the idealistic called that innocence. Children -prime examples of so called "innocence"- tended to live their lives in at the peak of wishful thinking, but all the delusions in the world didn't stave off reality. People had prices, civilization and all it's filth was the price people paid for a life of ease. If you didn't like that price you left. There were gates leading out, and those gates were open twenty four seven. Yes, you probably would die for the leaving, but freedom wasn't free.

He'd lived by those words. Had taken them in as a way of life. Now, in this place where a obvious show of loyalty could mean death his idealess ideals had been proven. He'd bled for his beliefs now, making thoughts and words transcend their own nature... belief had been reborn into action.

A paw tapped his shoulder, a low moan slid past his lips in response. Yet to spite the pain Rufus dredged up a smirk. He took a few deep breaths, willing the pain and burning behind his eyes to subside. The latter folded to his will after a few quick blinks, the former just continued to ignore his determination.

Fine then, he'd manage without ease and comfort. This wasn't the first or the last time his father would raise his hand against him. If only there was some way he could insure that it was! When the Turk's had begun to make overtures, when Tseng had been introduced into his life with the promise that he would guard and protect him...Rufus had been filled with hope. Hope had met the hard bones of reality a week later, and the encounter hadn't been pretty. Optimism had been ripped to shreds and left to pool in its own fluids, it was then he'd learned his first lesson; hope was the same as delusion. Promises of perfection were lies.

Then, once he had properly fallen into despair, the weight of hopelessness crushing him and dragging him down, there had come the contradiction. The scales of his life seemed well defined. The time of days was managed, remanaged, until his duty had become a noose across his throat -his father being the one holding the other end and gleefully tightening- the future was unattainable since the present was unlivable. The scales were a mere hair's weight from tipping. The sole piece on the board danced frantically on the edge, turning upon itself, it's gyrations slowing... Then, had come the change. It was so small as to be insignificant, he hadn't noticed right at first. The noose was being lightened, accidents kept occurring, lateness seemed to occur every day.

He was able to breathe at long last. And for taking his first breath he quickly began to hunger for more. Stealing a lap top computer had been child's play since he had access to the papers to cover his own trail. He'd filled them out, Tseng's own pen had been used to sign and seal his proverbial trail closed. From then on his reputation for sloth grew, and in those deliberately long noiseless spans -Turk cars were generally sound-proofed, Tseng's was no exception- he worked like a fiend to claim his company from the outside in.

Contacts were made, generally with the powerless, but contacts were made and exploited. Malcontents were found, researched, but until now were not exploited.

From the haze of non-caring and pain Rufus laughed as he imagined a handful of those "malcontents" getting a hold of his father. Some of them, especially those from the slums, weren't so hope-blind that they'd hold back any punches. Imagining the "fat man" being slashed with swords, shot with guns, the idea of it had made him laugh in the past. In this pain wrought present it coaxed a smile to his lips, he was too disciplined to laugh aloud when he knew such laughter might be fatal, but be damned if he didn't smile!

Lips still twisted into a cynical grin he drew a deep breath to brace himself, then rolled on his side. With one shaking arm pushed himself into a half raised state. 'Nation, seemed to understand what he was doing, for the panther-hound wormed his way to his master's side and dig his paws in the carpet. Braced by Dark Nation and the ground the heir to Shirna's fortune managed to work himself to a sitting position. The world spun, the corners twirled round and round in an insane drunken dance... He nearly got sick at the bout of vertigo that assailed him.

Almost... but not quite. In mute defiance he dragged himself to his feet, and though his legs shook at the effort he stood. The bed was a handful of feet away, he could expend all his energy getting there and passing out... that would be what _they_ expected him to do. For _they_ , look to the toadies that his father had placed in _his_ company. The fat man's lackeys and sycophants would expect laziness and weakness in a Shinra.

With old man Shirna, a fat, stupid man if there ever was one, at the head of the company it was little wonder that they did.

Defiance dug its spurs in deep, hate made his drooping eyelids pull back.

The edicts of a man who should have been his father beckoned him to seek rest, the man who had taken that fool's place would have counseled the impossible.

 _Predictability_ was death to a Turk, _obedience_ a thing to be expected and given in strict moderation. Success at any cost wasn't the name of the game, life was. Drawing your next breath and snubbing death, that was the point of everything. And everyone else who wasn't of that strict brotherhood they could just go to hell.

Compliments of Shinra inc, of course.

He managed one step, then another. SOLDIERS had cleared out the room, had taken everything save his roommate, for Nation wasn't one to be taken by anyone in any circumstance. Dark Nation padded behind him, his ears pricked, his nostrils flaring as he took in the thick drafts of anger his master was exuding. Limping past the bed he came to the cells sole window, on it's pristine surface he would have seen a pale reflection of himself, beyond that in bold grays and blacks should have been the military compound. Not vacant, not by a long shot, it's SOLDIERS would be hidden, distant, but there.

Perhaps they were distant enough for one man to slip past them all. One sick and beaten man might slip through the cracks of he was willing to bled enough to.

Rufus was more than willing; he'd rather die in a gun fight than suffer another beating for the next one would kill him. He knew that, felt his death in every bone and bruise, and knew that Reeve's humanitarianism aside Alex would kill his son if he could. Gasping, panting, Rufus bowed his head, waited for the grey to stop flickering, for the stars behind his eyes to go dead, and it was only then that he looked up onto the expected reflection and the world beyond that.

His reflection wasn't what looked back. Black balisk dead eyes regarded him, basilisk eyes and the black hole that was the business end of a gun, and both were pointed at his head with only a thin wall of glass between them both.


	32. Equilibrium: a moment's rest

Equilibrium:

A moment's rest

With a "hum" the once dead trains woke up. Like restless dragons they circled the city, their motions bringing back the familiar tremors that were so much like a heartbeat. Lights, once dead, flickered to sullen green tinged life. Walls of data, encryption, once shattered, had been rebuilt. A grip of terror was alleviated, the pressure of hate filled watching eyes lessened as their owners bowed back and down. And though tongues were still wagging all, on the surface, was well.

Normalcy had returned; those who worried drew a deep breath in relief… and those who wondered, they were permitted their thoughts for the time.

A wall of glass came down, soundlessly. The hinges were well oiled; they obeyed the coercion of the slightest tug and did so with proper quiet. Familiarity once alluded to became concrete, black met blue, in a mute duet of bruises and pain.

A hand was extended. The wrist kissed in torn silk and soiled white descended, calloused mud caked digits reached up, and a breech in security was made. One Turk had slipped into the Shinra's military compound, and had Heidegger known he would have screamed in hate and come down from his fury killing.

But, what one doesn't know doesn't kill. Not outright. For a time at least there was quiet.

On the surface all seemed well, beneath the surface it was a gun riddled mess of insecurity and instability...

But on the surface, all was well.

X

"I take it work went bad yesterday."

The words were formed in a language that wasn't his mother's. There was no stutter, no slur, merely the presence of syllables that were outré to his inner ear yet held a world meaning despite their alien formation. He smiled, for hearing them again. For hearing them fall from the lips of one who could do more than slam shut a door and lie about his presence if need be.

"Very bad." Tseng conceded with a wry smile. He considered his charge whom was gazing at him with only one eye. The other was swollen to the point it had closed. "And I will not play coy in how you gathered those wounds."

"The usual." Rufus confirmed, his expression became a grimace, and that small movement caused his split lip to trickle red.

As for the usual in routine… their day certainly wasn't starting the way it had before. Rufus, at this hour would be reclining at his desk and Tseng at his, both speaking non-challantly of nothing in particular over the phone. Both refusing to admit that this day might be their last, for the man who wanted them both dead could strike at any moment. Their security, their stability, it had never even been surface deep.

Not even from the day they'd met.

The exertion of pulling a full grown man through the opening had used the last of the Shinra's strength. He lay panting on the pale grey floor. His worn, sweat stale, clothes pooled around him, in a mismanaged gathering of cloths, pockets, and limbs.

And the only spot of color (besides the occasional spot of red) to the compilation was the blond hair upon his head.

As for the Turk, he lay on his side, shamelessly hogging the edge of the boy's bed. His eyes were closed to mere slits, and though he ached to let them slid shut all the way duty forbade him. He had orders to complete, a mission, and he wasn't so much a rookie as to let mere physical drainage and discomfort stand in his way.

Around them, like some black cloud of mal-content, Dark Nation paced the room, looking from one to the other and voicing the occasional mew of worry. Beyond that, and the heavy panting of both spent men, there was silence, silence and waiting.

"You… didn't have to… pull a gun on me…" Rufus complained mildly.

"Didn't know if I had the right room." Tseng hissed in discomfort as the familiar agony of his slashed leg reared up and pounced, stealing all of the Turk's words all at once.

"You mean… you hoped… you had Hied.. Hie… His room." Rufus whined.

"I won't lie." Tseng managed to force the words around clenched teeth and a shudder of pain.

"You're in worse shape than I am." Rufus grunted. "That's… damn impressive…"

Tseng dredged up a frown from somewhere, and looked at the heir in disapproval, but he was beyond all means of speech for now.

"Oh, shut up." Rufus growled. "Don't wanna hear it." With shaking hands the Shinra tugged his torn trench coat around, as if he were drawing blankets over his form. "M' tired." Rufus slurred. "They don't care, they'll forget me… we can… rest a little."

Confident in his superior's surety –never mind the child's exhaustion, Rufus was still thinking and Tseng grudgingly was forced to admit he wasn't- Tseng managed something like a nod.

Rufus didn't notice, the young entrepreneur's eyes slid shut, and with a sigh the boy fell asleep, unfazed by the fact that a professional killer took his rest only a few feet away.


	33. As it should be

Equilibrium:

As it should be

The delusion of grander and immortality were the slaves against life and the present. And though history and literature told one that immortality was as twisted as the Wutia emperor's granted wish for a golden touch, and lead to as much tragedy, those twin poisons were sought after and applied.

And after application expect death shortly…

Much like say… a bullet to the brain.

There were no elixirs of endless youth, no fountain of immortality, no remedy to the natural poisons and diseases the planet is swift to inflict. All the stories of those who sought such things ended in death for the-would-be seeker.

He'd never understood the drive. Humbly accepting his place in life he could only watch with amusement as the man who was as close to a true Lord of the Sun Throne could flippantly spend billions upon billions of gil and lives to attain the unattainable. Perhaps it was the lure, the impossible which was a sirens call to a youngster. The promise of the impossible might have been that which opened the path to madness, but it was inexcusable that that path was never disembarked. Alex Shinra was still running down it, being driven on by a cackling mad-man's whispers of "just a little more, I need just a little more time…"

As a Turk he was allowed into the inner sanctums of every department, and after hearing stories he'd been prodded by curiosity of a macabre bent to explore where no one else wanted to. Like a child daring the monsters of the night to prove his bravery Tseng had went down into levels unspeakable, and on the threshold… amongst the tormented bodies of the various "discarded projects" he had balked.

No sane man goes willingly down into hell. And those still-alive corpses… With the mako running out of their eyes, their tongue less mouth opened in mute pleading, their powerful limbs trapped in shows of agony…

He'd made a breach of protocol by putting a bullet in their heads, and that noise had summoned the king of the projects. White coat smeared in red Hojo had been amused to see the Turk doing his own work for him. An offer had been struck, an opportunity seen from one side. Why not take the remains to the shooting ground? Give the younger Turks' a good bloodying and get rid of the bodies all in one go? Tseng had walked out, face pale, guts churning, a fiend's laughter at his back had made him cast dignity to the dirt and he had forsaken mere walking...

He had ran, eyes wide in horror, face pale as freshly fallen snow.

In the clean sanctuary of his office he had collapsed, only to hurl. The contents of his stomach fell with wet thuds upon the immaculate floor of his newly appointed office. He hadn't cared, and had pointedly ignored the concerned looks of the custodian who had to clean up after him.

Once coherent he had pulled all of his people from the Bio-engineering branch of Shinra. His spies, his confidents, even his acquaintances, he'd had the power and had shamelessly used it to protect those under him. Out off all the branches of the Shinra Company only Hojo's was completely Turk free.

Perhaps, unfazed by the scents of decay and suffering Heidegger and the President had made the opening moves of his Turk Elimination Plan in some abandoned lab. Perhaps not. The last document… or rather the only _incriminating_ document that had fallen into Tseng's hands a mere day before that plans execution, had certainly pointed to the fact that both men had been at ease speaking of treason in the open.

He wondered over this, and of madness, as the one he was supposed to be protecting made crude bandages. Form sheets, no less. Still it was under his direction, having been without healing material for the first leg of his life as a Turk was proving useful.

At least he had a vague idea of what he was doing. If left to his own devices Rufus would have wound up hurting more than helping.

And speaking of help…

"Rufus, do not use all the bandages on my leg, your arm is in poor shape…"

"Bruises are one thing, bleeding's another."

Had he the energy Tseng would have reprimanded his charge, would have patiently explained how bruises were in fact the same as bleedings. The only difference was that the blood under the skin never saw the surface.

"What's the plan?" Rufus growled around a mouthful of white linen. Having nothing else but the clothes on his back Rufus was using tooth and nail to rip the bed coverings down the center. The sheets were a thing to be remembered, their remnants were already covering the worse of the cuts on Tseng's frame.

In disarming his son Alex proved that he was as intelligent as he was crazed. In disarming the one man who'd raise hand against him he was assuring his own safety, for a time. A shame that the President was not merely insane! That base cunning and distrust Alex Shinra harbored would prove hard to work around.

At the very least compassionate opponents had vulnerabilities, the insane had none, for they'd even abandon their goals for the pleasure of the moment.

"Tseng?"

Wide eyes, scared eyes of the unblooded, considered him. The trust in their depths cut deeper than all the wounds he'd endured in the whole of his life. Licking his lip the Turk tried to think, and came up with nothing but a haze of agony. He struggled beyond that haze, and finding nothing beyond it but desperation.

"It's… not safe…" The Turk managed at last. "You'll have to do it alone." Had he blood to spare he'd have turned crimson at the next confession. Having none his voice dropped to a pain filled croak. "I can't even walk… The guards… have heal materia, kill the guards…"

"Get the materia, but Tseng I don't have a gun-"

With a shaking hand the Turk indicated the weapon clipped to his belt. Rufus stared at it, than him for a long time. The boy wasn't a Turk, Tseng couldn't expect instant reaction to an alluded order, so he waited with the patience of the dying. He waited in gasp punctured silence for a decision to be made.

When the boy finally reached for the weapon the Turk dredged up a smile and whispered. "Only one bullet…"

"I understand." Rufus replied.

But the innocence in those determined eyes told Tseng that the boy didn't understand. Not yet, not yet… He'd either learn or die from the learning.

Such was the way of the Turks.

XXX

Compliancy had made them lazy. Instead of listening, ears pressed against the door, taking notes, his jailors had been playing poker. The cards and gill besides the still man alluded to a heated game, the absence of the other player told him that time was limited.

With a dull thump the body slumped forward, the man's eyes were glassy, vacant, and a dull crimson stain was spreading over the left half of his uniform. The hand gun was a familiar weight in his grasp. The warmth after a shot wasn't alien or disturbing, rather expected. Staring blankly at the man he just killed, meeting unseeing eyes with his living, Rufus was surprised. He half expected hysterics, horror, or some other kind of emotional backlash as he stared down at the dead man.

But there was nothing, save words remembered from a childhood long gone.

_They will teach you how to shoot for sport; I will teach you how to kill._

True to his word, Tseng had taught him how to kill, and looking down at the body he wasn't surprised to find the Turk had been right about how easy it was.

Stuffing the spent gun in his pocket Rufus cautiously crept forward. Heidegger had told stories of how resilient a SOLDIER could be, even a gun shot at point blank at the brain had a chance of failing to kill a first class. When the corpse didn't rise again Rufus reached out and grabbed the SOLDIERS limp hand in his own. With a sharp motion he pulled back the man's baggy blue sleeve. Like a gift from god there was one green orb amongst the red. It was a pale hue and it gleamed with a gentle warmth that alluded to its purpose. Ripping it off the Shinra-made bracer Rufus stuffed the materia in the same pocket as the warm gun.

"'Nation, watch the hall, kill anyone who comes in."

A throaty growl told him he had been heard, but understanding and hearing were two different things. Rufus bolted back to the sanctuary of his room, to the dying man waiting for him in it.

XXX

His brain felt like knives had run through it, he leaned weakly against the side of his own bed even as the revived Turk tugged off bandages that were still colored crimson by fresh blood.

"Next time don't throw everything into the materia." Tseng ordered. "It'll suck you dry faster than Reno can go through a twelve pack of beer."

Numbly Rufus managed a nod, his head ached, and he was still battered, just not half dead... Still, after healing himself and Tseng he wasn't up to his best just yet. From a world away there came a startled scream, a roar, too numb to care Rufus let his eyes slid half closed. He wanted to sleep, never mind there were SOLDIERS coming, that Dark Nation was outside fighting for his life. A hand gripped his shoulder, he was shook, hard.

"Rufus, we have to go, can you walk?"

"Dunno." He grunted, forcing his eyes open he let his lip quirk into a half smile. "Do I get a shot at my ol' man?"

"As many as you like." Tseng offered a hand and Rufus reached up, the Turk pulled him to his feet with ease. "But you have to keep pace."

He wanted to say something with panache, but the haze in his brain was so dense he couldn't have uttered a nursery rhyme. Still, somehow, he managed a nod. A nod and a smile, and to that the Turk's black eyes softened a bit around the edges.

"Well then, Mr. Vice President, you are currently under Turk custody. I don't recommend that you put up a struggle."

Rufus was hauled to his feet. One arm holding the boy steady the Turk sent the other one to the pocket that held materia and gun alike. Setting the dead gun to the back of the boy's head Tseng gave the Shinra a nudge towards the open door.

"Mr. Vice President, if you would lead..."

"Only for a little longer." Rufus growled sullenly. Sickness disabled his reserve, freed his tongue to speak one line of truth.

Truth was met with truth, the Turk managed a wry smile, his black eyes were alight with hate. "As it should be." Tseng murmured. "Mr. President, as it should be."


	34. Equilibrium:  Death and Symbols

Equilibrium:

Death of Symbology

 

Gun fire ceased as he they stepped out. Always one to stay in the background he found it oddly satisfying to step forward and actually put a stop to the action without having to do anything save put in an appearance.

It made attendance worthwhile for once. He smiled into the shocked faces and barked orders, and those from beyond his power base scrambled to obey. One sharp jab to the small of the young man's back sent Rufus sprawling, he followed the heir's fall with his gun. The blond hit the cement with a satisfying grunt, and lay still.

There was power in pictures, symbols in posture, and the image of an armed man standing over a fallen one was poignant enough that the normally dense SOLDIERS drew the right images and broke their precious protocol and procedure to see he got what he wanted. Soon, down the hall, came a rush of steps, under heavy guard they came, all the moderator's in the Shinra power company. Last to arrive was the king of the company, and with so many powerful witnesses he was disarmed.

You could only pretend to be a callous bastard so far in public. Cross that line and tongues would wag, the company was already under suspicion due to the power outages, the assassinations, and the documents that had fallen into the people’s hands.

Precarious, only a fool would not see the tilt of the scales. Balance upended, the pieces of an empire had fallen into one man's hands. Hoarding those pieces, holding absolute power for less than three days, the holder was now in the place of the destroyer. He could -and logically _should_ \- destroy what he held, if he wanted to live a life without looking over his shoulder until that last day he should have. But this was Alexander Shinra who was coming under fire, a cowards and glutton at heart the man was now set in a position as precarious as his company.

For the sake of his own survival the President was going to have to abstain from vengeance for a time.

Reaching into his pocket with a free hand Tseng fished out his cell phone. He held it up, turned it over in his fingers so all could see it, then he flicked it open.

It was already on speaker, he'd set it that way, the volume was maxed out and his audience was quiet. To the power of image they folded, those of false power and pretense, and only the President sputtered and cursed. But even that was subdued, fat rimmed eyes flicked to the Turk to the still heir, than back again.

Recognition of reality was knocking.

"Shinra's legacy, Shinra proper, I offer both of these to you for the sake of mere chance of negotiation, Mr. Shinra." Tseng murmured, his gaze never leaving the still form at his feet.

"We had a deal." Alex spat, he bulled his way past his subordinates, even stepping past Heidegger's ring of SOLDIERS to better see. The close up view wasn't much better, the boy's straits were apparently dire "You were to meet me in the Shinra building on the Turk level."

Lifting the hand with the phone Tseng waved away the President's words with impatience. A soft hum came from the device, it's buttons glowed a sullen red, the screen declared in thick Continental letters that it was "dialing". Then, came a click as someone on the other end picked up.

"Sir," Tseng stiffened, instinct decades old almost made him salute out of habit. _Almost_. Over training allowed him to override the childish impulse. "I've gathered the Shinra boy, I take it our teams have infiltrated the building?"

"Yes, and the situation is stable. The explosives are being set in place among the foundation beams."

Gasps met that announcement, looks of horror. Even Rufus, sprawled on the floor as he was twitched as those words sunk in. Ignoring them all Tseng let out a low growl, and the boy went still at that wordless threat.

"I take it that the security in the Turk floor was extensive?" Tseng asked delicately.

"We lost Erick's team taking them down, but the President's little ambush is finished."

To that Tseng lifted his gaze, met the pale doughy face of Alex Shinra. A small frown touched his lips, only that.

"The Turk's price just went up." Tseng announced coldly.

A door swung open, reality impatient with knocking, had entered. It's entering was rude, and met with one snarl of absolute shock.

"As if I'd ever take the lot of you traitor's ba-"

"Before you say anything damning sir, I feel you should be warned that Reno is in charge of the raid on the Shinra building. He's an enthusiastic Turk, always eager to... shall we say... make a flashy exit. But, aren't you forgetting the most important thing out of this?"

With one booted foot he nudged Rufus Shinra, the boy lay limp. Bonelessly going with the force of his attackers blow, Rufus was so pale, bruises stood on what flesh they could see. And they were seeing, the executives were seeing and perhaps comprehending for the first time the matter of scale. Alex had already signed his own death warrant in a way. The pen was seeped in the ink of apathy, and the signature flourished with obvious disdain of compassion. And by Alex's hand, by Alex's actions, perhaps those closest to him were finally seeing. Seeing a man so callous, so inhuman that he'd leave his son at the feet of a foe. Hearing the place silence reigned where concern and heated anger would have been better suited.

Scarlet, a steadfast supporter of the elder Shinra looked from parent to child, and then considered the Turk, her lips pressed together in thought. Reeve was pale, obviously shaken and torn between disgust and the humane (if suicidal) idea of rushing to the boy's rescue. Palmer was a blubbering mass of uselessness, and with a healthy dose of disdain on all parts he was being ignored and avoided. Only Hojo and Heidegger were unmoved, uncaring, and the Professor's thin lips were pressed into a frown. One foot tapped against the floor in a show of obvious impatience, only the rustle of fabric being stirred told the observant whose it was. The words were unspoken, but the sentiment was obvious, "kill the boy or not, just hurry up, I don't have all day you know".

When Alex's fat rimmed eyes slid to some point beyond the Turk's shoulder Tseng let his lips quirk in one corner.

"Mr. Shinra, you should also consider this, if I don't come back to report in _person,_ in an _hour,_ those explosions are going off regardless of what agreement we reach. So you best call off those reinforcements that are coming in."

Reality had taken the most prominent chair in attendance, kicked it's feet up, and made itself at home. And by the red hue that was fast mounting the senior Shinra's cheeks the homecoming wasn't a welcome one.

"Heidegger, have your SOLDIERS send the rest of the executives to their quarters." Alex hissed the words around clenched teeth. "Mr. Tseng, I expect to see you in meeting room in five minutes."

"Sir." With a curt nod Tseng stepped back, allowing his superior to pass, his eyes lowered in a show of humility of submissiveness. The show lasted only until Alex had passed, then the gaze had lifted and Tseng's lip curled in a mute snarl of hate.

Oblivious, the elder Shinra stepped over his son, past the Turk, as he left.

Chaos erupted behind him, around him. SOLDIERS were grabbing at protesting executives, dragging them back. Yet not all were indifferent to the fate of the young Shinra. Reeve unclenched his hands, and stood numb in waiting. He had been a silent witness, and he would remain silent. One thick fingered hand closed over his shoulder, and he turned and stared into Mako green eyes, his own brown were listless, disinterested. Some instinct told him that his hands shook and he shoved them into his pants pockets, hoping that no one had seen them quake.

Especially not one of Heidegger's flunkies.

"You're supposed to be leaving." The SOLDIER growled.

"Just on my way out." Reeve assured, and he fell in step without a word of protest. The little freedom "of movement" was obviously going to be curtailed until the Turk's meeting with the Shinra's was concluded.

Yet as he walked he didn't see the grey halls he traversed. Only one image played in his mind, and it was caught in replay.

One Turk, kneeling down, reaching down to gently shake the young man who was sprawled at his feet. A slight stir on the boy's part, the opening of world weary blue eyes. Then a flick of motion had caught his attention. The sedate wave of darkness from darkness, inhuman yet familiar. A wag, like some great tail had swished, he'd followed that motion with his eyes and found a pair of compliant, relaxed navy blue sparks considering him from the shadows left by failed illumination. Those sparks had closed, opened, considered him, then he'd seen a flash of white. Fanciful images -of some savage tooth tipped in red- played in his head as those eyes had gone out. He wondered, as his path deviated from that of Rufus Shinra's, it the owner of those blood seeped teeth would pad after the boy.


	35. Equilibrium: Channel Surfing

 

Equilibrium:

Chanel Surfing

Rufus lounged on one side, hand extended, the remote control in his hand pointed like a gun at the screen. One button press later and the Mako metropolis newsperson went mute. The speaker behind her desk shuffled papers and looked importantly upon some point beyond the camera. He met that professionally detached zeal with a blank look. The camera panned out and he pushed up on one elbow to better see the persons on the screen.

The fat man, it seemed, had left the office for once and was putting on a speech for the masses. Keeping the volume on mute he watched for a few moments, then dropped his gaze to better see how the mako fueled images painted the wood floor with a glaze of flickering, translucent, color.

From some point behind him there came the scritch of pen on paper. The sound had been slowing ever since he killed the volume, clearly the writer was distracted by something. But distraction was easily toned out, and the pen picked up pace once more. Not bothering to look up from his work the man in the back of the room cleared his throat.

"Rufus, if you insist on watching television while you are here at least put something tasteful on."

"I can't, the Metrop's taken all the stations over for the Fat Man's explanatory speech."

"Wonderful, so channel six has been overridden."

He rolled slightly, so he could see the man behind the desk. A pale face looked beyond him, was locked on the silent figures on the screen. Expressionless despite holding host to a multitude of facets that could say much, the Turk looked bloodless despite his veins being home to the red streams of two whole heritages.

"I'll let you know when your antique show starts back up on, the TV guild says that the speach should only be on for another half hour or so, you'll at least get to see the latter half."

Silence, a raised brow, but with that one gesture gratitude was conveyed.

Rolling over to better watch the silent mouthing of the one man and woman dancing the same old boring political dance Rufus cracked a grin. He'd already read his father's planed speech. Some lack wit with a sharp tongue had written it, and if the heir hadn't lost his touch reading lips old man Shinra hadn't deviated from it yet. Granted, the TV screen with it's painful brightness made lip reading a little hard, but adversity on that scale couldn't kill. Rufus watched the President's lips move mutely, unwittingly parroting what he read with his own lips.

"Rufus, your control is slipping. If you must speak the words in your throat, but never let them touch your lips."

Wincing a bit at that reprimand Rufus clamped his lips together, willing them to stay still. He "read" in silence, no longer drawing amusement from his little past time. Finally, when the program went off to a commercial break Rufus let himself slump back on the wooden floor of Tseng's office. It just didn't seem worth it to hold up his own end right then.

"How are those forged death certificates coming?" He asked quietly

"Well," Tseng sighed, "unfortunately not all are artifice. The current president's actions have cost me a few of my people."

"Well if you're planning another vengeance run let me know a few days in advance." Rufus ordered. Then, when silence met his demand he corrected himself. "If that's feasible, or even an option."

"I thought you had enough of vengeance, certainly seeing the President humbled was en-"

"Was seeing the old man humbled enough for you Tseng?" Rufus asked, cutting his Turk off with both words and a little growl to his tone. "Was it enough? Is it going to bring back Alex, or Lis's team, or any of them? Are they going to come back because the fat man got slapped down?"

"No. But his death won't bring them back either." The Turk reminded the boy in a somber tone.

"I _know_ that." Rufus snapped. "I'm not stupid. Angry yes, stupid no."

The young Shinra curled on his side, as if warding off a blow. To that Tseng said nothing, but his pen stilled, his writing stopped. All he was doing now was filling in the dates of death and signing the final pages to mark each segment as official. Turks offered no condolences to the family members of the fallen, they never had nor would they over so long as he ran things. Sentimental drivel, final rites, even religious ritual... all were banned in every branch of the Turks. You had to be willing to raid the pockets and homes of the "honored" dead and do so unflinchingly. Remorse could get you killed, and sentimental thinking was the same as suicide in an assassin's guild.

And for all its spit and polish, all it's genteel trappings, the Turks were part spy, part killer.

Morals had no place in the lives of either.

"I imagine a few blotched projects and a few leaks ignored... as well as our continued support of the neo-insurgence project will be damage and vengeance enough."

"I liked my name better," Rufus complained, "the Wallace Project has a pleasant ring to it. Neo-insurgence is too damning."

"So is your name. At least with mine," Tseng countered a thin note reproach ran in his tone, "it does not destroy the person in charge of the insurgence. And if asked about it openly I can at least spin a lie about the Turks working on an Anti-neo-insurgence project..."

"It's a mouthful, but its your tongue you're biting out to say it." Rufus conceded with a chuckle.

Warmed to good humor at the argument adverted -and done so subtly besides!- Tseng's lips curled into a smile that wasn't wholly made of ice.

"That," The Turk agreed, both submitting and asserting authority in one move, "it is."

Silence reigned, and satisfied by it's flavoring of contentment Tseng picked up his pen and was about to go back to his work when-

"You know, I think Wutia politics must have been funnier than Continental. We're all flash and shows of power, I guess we're pretty savage compared to the word dance and double dealing games the Wutai play."

"I wouldn't know, I wasn't raised in Wutia proper." Tseng confessed with a shrug.

With a quiet snort of amusement Rufus turned so he was facing the screen again.

XXX

_The gun spun upon it's side after a minimal span of skipping. Made of polished black steel, it did so with only the faintest of hisses. Handle to barrel, it turned in a one sided fall so that it pointed at the President grip first. One weapon discarded, Tseng pulled out the chair that was set before him. At his beckoning the woozy heir took the seat that was mutely offered. As Rufus folded into the chair with only a bare ghost of his old elegance hanging around him, Alex Shinra's eyes thinned into slits of hate._

_"They back you now boy, but wait, they'll turn on you the second you're weak."_

_Setting one arm on the table, using it to brace himself so he didn't pitch forward, Rufus managed a scowl that conveyed all his hate. "Mr. President, don't damn your cause so soon, you're already in deep."_

_"How dare you!" Surging to his feet the President made as if to strode across the room and deliver a blow to his son. In response Tseng took a half step back- "You see, they don't support you, your their tool, a pawn, a weakling, you've never been worth anyth-"_

_A glint of light on steel, and Alex stepped back, a long length of sharpened steel pointed at his throat._

_"I advise you, sir, to stand down." Tseng murmured in the most docile of tones. His black demon-slant eyes told another tale. They were empty of everything, save hate. "It would behoove you to refrain from laying hand on the President, sir."_

_"The President,_ that _brat, you're mad, the whole lot of-"_

_"If he tries anything feel free to disembowel him, Tseng." Rufus informed his Turk in a cheery -if exhaustion laden- tone._

_It was then, seeing hate from black and blue eyes, by the light of that naked length of steel that Alex Shinra saw the reality standing before him. Death, it is said, could have a sobering effect on those who encounter it. To those who it is promised to, with hate attached, it was more than a bucket of cold water to the face. Rather, realization is the cumulating of every withdraw and hangover of a lifetime delivered in one second._

_"Now than, sir." Rufus said, his tone cooler than the ice his gaze was said to embody. "Please be seated, we've much to cover and little time to spare."_

XXX

Reconstruction of the company would be offered, a purging of the Turks commenced. but this would be controlled, tightly overseen by the man who had been held captive by his rebellious subordinates. Tseng had become something of a tragic figure in all of this. Held at gun point, sacrificing everything to get a hold of the Vice President's son, the boy risking his father's legendary ire had delivered the bad news. Hence, why response had been so slow. Had the apology -or cover story- had one word of truth in it Rufus might have turned the volume on just to listen in. Since he knew it was pure lie he listlessly flipped through the stations and was confronted with his father's face at every turn.

"So, how's it feel to be a hero, Tseng?" Rufus had asked upon finishing his read through the President's speech.

"A hero, me?" The Turk had been shrugging off his outermost coat. Underneath had been a navy blue vest, the coat of the same color that had been draped over the vest was sprawled over the back of his chair. The contrasts to the blue on blue were the white of his oxford shirt and the black line his tie made down his chest. He had turned to better see the heir, and his lips had quirked in amusement at Rufus' odd pronouncement. "Whatever for?"

Rufus had provided the script, the speech, and Tseng had gone over it. A lesser man might have expressed amusement at the multitude of lies, Tseng had only read through it, dissected it with his gaze, than had handed it back.

"Distasteful, he lies through his teeth and that will only be fuel for the fires."

"Fire can be useful." Rufus had noted.

"Yes, I suppose, just don't get caught playing amongst the flames." The half Wutai had cautioned.

"No Wutia proverb?" The heir had teased.

The murderer's eyes had softened at that sally. The Turk hadn't allowed his lips to curl though. Still there was a glint in the eyes told Rufus that had they both not been on the clock those lips might have been graced with a smile. "Some other time, Rufus-sama, when I'm not so busy."

Neither had gone through the dance of ignorance, to ask why Rufus was here rather than at his father's side or even in his own office. They both knew why, and silently acknowledged it. So Rufus had taken his place on the floor of Tseng's office and the Turk had taken the seat behind his desk to catch up with the various tasks that were involved with the running of the shadowy side of the Shinra Company.

"You never answered me." Rufus noted into the silence. He'd closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have to look at the image of his father.

The pen slowed once more, as the person who guided it was distracted by that odd pronouncement.

"About what, Rufus?" Tseng queered.

"About what it feels like to be a hero. You never answered that."

"Ahh, that." There came a click followed by another click that had something of a clack to it. The pens' tip had been sheathed, the writing tool had been set aside. "Well, I am most certainly not that, a hero. I am a Turk, there is a world of difference."

"Not to the public there isn't."

"If being a hero means being tailed by the paparazzi as are you and the current president are than I'd have as little to do with the righteous as humanly possible." Tseng said. There came a sigh of steel being pushed across wood. The Turk found his feet soundlessly. "I am going to get some coffee from the lounge, did you want some?"

"No thanks."

Rufus could feel the heat of light of the mako driven television, he could see flickers of color from the screen under his mostly closed lids. Turning from that poor man's version of illumination Rufus sighed.

"Have you had anything to eat since the SOLDIER raid of your apartment?" Tseng asked.

"I haven't been hungry." Rufus admitted. "Just tired."

"Then, I believe I'll pick you up something to eat and some tea as well."

"Not some herbal "for better physical and spiritual health" Wutia junk tea." Rufus groaned, cracking an eye open to better half glare at his bodyguard.

The glare that met his own, one filled with protective authority and a "damned if I don't do what I want to" attitude made Rufus wince, just a little.

"Your protection on all levels is my responsibility." Tseng said coldly. "You are not to argue with me about my methods."

Dropping his gaze Rufus sighed. "Yessir."

XXX

_It was a long and hard meeting, and it took all of his untried courage to face down a man who wanted nothing more than to break his throat in thick unforgiving hands. And through it all he had to hold to composure, to icy detachment, to fail in control and show fear was the same as to admit he'd lost._

_And losing this fight wasn't an option._

_With one ally guarding his back and one ally at his feet he leaned forward, daring the roaring dual-horns grasp and hate all for the pose that would best express his superiority._

_Never mind all the times in his life those hands had struck him. Never mind the threats that had been uttered and the threats that had been carried out. He was -for the moment- to forget that the death of his mother was due to the bastard._

_It was a hard task that he'd been set to, hard to contemplate duty when absolute power had (by purest chance!) fallen into his hands. All he wanted to do was order the Turk's to rip the bastard's intestinal track with his sword. Failing that, a decapitation or two would do nicely. Temptation was there, he could taste it on his lips like he had tasted many fine wines, and for a second he savored the fantasy of the fat man dead. Twisted form lying in a pool of it's own innards, red everywhere... Then, with a rueful smile, he shook his head._

_"Sir," Rufus addressed his father as he would a foreign business associate who'd put his foot in it. "the wrongs you've done against the Turks of the Shinra Company are very long and varied indeed. I can hardly see what you have in your possession that could compensate for the deaths of dozens and the destruction the Turk's headquarters and reputation."_

_"What_ I've _done!" Alex Shinra roared. "Compared to what they've done-"_

_"There actions were merely a mirror to your own. And you've been warned, and that alone should say something." When stupefied eyes met his own Rufus allowed his lips to curl ever so slightly. "Had they wanted to deal you cold-blooded retribution only, why would they bother? You were warned, and considering the nature of the organization that you founded and have supported for years... perhaps some residual company loyalty still exists."_

_Mouth opening and closing on nothing, no words came from the man, no sounds. The president looked at his son the same way he'd look upon a stranger who had pulled a fully loaded, materia enhanced, magnum on him._

_"If it does, I'd suggest exploiting it." Lifting a hand Rufus studied his nails, as if they were of great importance and the pale President anything but. "But then I'm a neutral party on this. I don't support the Turk's wholeheartedly, nor do I fear them, but selfishly speaking I'd like the company to stay in one piece so I don't spend half a life-time fixing up what you've screwed up." Tapping one thin finger against his lower lip Rufus frowned, as if a distasteful thought had come to him. "Provided that you haven't screwed things up beyond the point of fixing. If that's the case than you, Mr. Tseng, have my express permission to bring the tower down. We could always make something less grandiose, and Reeve has been nattering on about needing good steel for re-fortifying the third Mako reactor. It would be a shame if a third of our revenue when out the window due to a structural problem left untended because of laziness."_

_With a purr Dark Nation set his head on his master's lap, and with a warm smile Rufus dropped his gaze from the President's wide eyes and scrittched the feline behind the ears. For a time the only sounds in the meeting room were the feline's purr and soft whisper of fingers running over fur._

_From the back of the room Tseng spoke, it was the first words he'd said upon escorting the heir to his seat._

_"It is currently nine fifteen; I'll be leaving the company at ten o' clock_ sharp

_While it wasn't quite subtle it brought the point home. Rufus smirked as the fat man snarled._

_"You heard him, time's money, and you're wasting both sir, so why don't we get to the manner of cases. Mr. Tseng, did you bring me a copy of the TEP paperwork?"_

_"Unfortunately no, Mr. Shinra."_

_"Oh well, we'll work around that." Rufus said brightly. "I'm confident you read the paperwork and are willing to give me briefing as well as a summation of your losses that came into place since that policy was set in motion? Once you've done that I'm sure we can make some sort of compromise."_

XXX

He'd been escorted to a chair in the break room. All around him were people dressed in stark blue suits with black ties slung around their necks. Even the sole woman at the table was so attired, wearing pants instead of a skirt. Greetings were exchanged, friendly warm salutations, and as they were being tendered Tseng departed. He returned a few moments later, a bowl of ramen and rice was set before his charge. Two cups of tea was set and simmering a hands length away from where both Turk and Executive sat.

"No shadows?" Rufus asked, drawing on Turk slang to describe the few Turks who were loyal to Heidegger.

"Naw." Kicking his feet up on the edge of the table the red haired Turk with bright green eyes smirked. "Found the reception too chilly for 'em."

"Reno, put you're feet down." Growled a bald, brown, Turk. "You're scuffing up the-"

"Rude, shove it." Reno snapped. "I'm on my effing break, in the effing Turk break room, if I wanted too I could play bullet roulette with an automatic and no one would care 'cept the custodian."

The scents of coffee hung in the air, coffee, tea, and a whisper of whisky. Scenting the last Tseng's eyes pressed into slits of distaste. He all but skewered his underlings with the power of his gaze alone. Mutely demanding confessions and promising punishments all in the same squinting of eyes he combed the room with his eyes.

Blooded Turks went pale, found distant non-existent scenery to study, and Rude went an interesting shade darker than was his norm. Seeing that look, and how it differed from all the others, Tseng stood, zeroed in on his underling.

Checking a smile at Reno's conspiratorial wink, Rufus just applied himself to the food set in front of him and kept his head down.

There was going to be fireworks, brimstone, and hell, all in one go, and it was all going to come down on one man's head. Glad that it wasn't _his_ head (this time) the heir simply slurped soup and kept an eye on the show.

XXX

_As the talk wore on there was an obvious lack of attention on the fat man's part. His gaze kept darting to the gun on the table, then, with a hundred signs to serve as warning the fat man's thick hands stretched forward in a desperate grab. Alex Shirna trained Tseng's gun on his son, and all talk stopped. The heartfelt snarl of hate clawed out of the elder Shinra's throat, that snarl was met by the black mass at Rufus' feet. Seeing that hate, seeing it openly with no one to appease and nothing to lose Rufus met hate with hate. He flipped his father the double bird and let out a laugh when the fool pulled the trigger._

_The click of trigger meeting nothing told the whole story. The empty gun spoke volumes of alliance and trust, and of betrayal._

_Letting his own lips curl in a smile Tseng set his hand on the heir's shoulder._

" _As you suspected, Mr. President, your current stand-in is most defiantly lacking of vision and comprehension."_

" _Yes, Mr. Tseng, that he does. But he serves my purpose, for the time being." Setting his hand on the angry panther-hound's head Rufus made a quiet noise in the back of his throat. "Down 'Nation, sit."_

' _Nation sat; the click of still drawn claws rasping the cement told all present how reluctantly that order was obeyed._

" _Sir?" Rufus lifted one hand then gently lowered it. The motions he used now were the same he used when publicly ordering his pet to sit and heel. "You should be seated."_

_The insult was apparent, blatant, and Alex Shinra quivered in indignation._

" _I am not running this company at your convenience!" The current president howled._

" _Actually, yes, you do. But I imagine the word "legacy" means nothing to you, so I suppose I should spend some time trying to each you the basic definitions of reality. Listen closely; I don't repeat myself to simpletons." Letting his hand fall from Nation's head the vice president leaned back in his chair, his eyes half closed, his breathing slow and steady, as he thought. "We live, we die, the most powerful and the most weak. That's the universal law. Fear is the most powerful emotion, and it binds everything in this pathetic planet together. And the only thing that keeps the weak in line is fear, but you have to be careful in application. Too much and they run away and die, too little and they trust in you to be weak. So you cut a balance between being a tyrant and being a saint, because unpredictability has the longest record of keeping people in line._

 _But, you know what? No matter how well you play your games it's all a matter of keeping track of time. Work, life, love, everything's finite and subjective, empires crumble –even the one that bares our last name-, and even after you die I still have my mortality to face down. So don't waste time with vengeance. I'll die eventually, probably from some young "upstart" with a gun and a want for my blood. I accept that, I've_ accepted _that for years. It's survival of the fittest, and you, fat man, aren't good enough anymore."_

" _When this is over you're a dead man." Alex promised his son with a snarl._

_Throwing the useless gun to the floor perhaps the president expected to entice a jolt of shock –or better yet fear- from his son. Rufus didn't flinch, he only looked to his sire and blinked. The gesture was slow, extracted, and loaded with meaning. But somewhere along the line Alex Shirna had discarded the book of translation, he'd severed the ties of their blood with paranoia born hate and they hung limp and useless. Silken red lines were a shriveled mess of dull brown, of dried blood…_

" _Actually, I'm not. I can hardly imagine the Turk's flocking to your banner, and you need them you fool, even if everyone says you don't. The company would collapse in a fortnight. Furthermore, if you_ don't _take them back they'll deliberately destroy the company from the outside in. I, for one, would like to inherit something. But if you don't want to have a place to work or call home feel free to adjourn this little meeting here and now." Looking past his father, to the world beyond the room, Rufus' tone became abstract. "If I can't have the world I'll settle for seeing as much of it as I can."_

_Tseng offered no comment to that. The man offered a nod and perhaps the look he cast the heir was one of respect._

" _Due to the Vice President's unwavering loyalty to the Turks, it would not be unfeasible for us to offer a long term contract with him and him alone. If anything untoward were to happen to him though…" The Turk looked down at the President, his eyes alight with the passion of dealing death. As genuine and heartfelt as only a killer could display. "Rufus' death would be little more than a catalyst. We would begin this cycle again at such a prompt. Without cessation."_

_The last went beyond mere threat, it was a promise._

_XXX_

It was pathetic, juvenile yes, but pathetic besides. At least the adolescent could claim they were "trying" and the lackluster performance or end product could be laid claim to inexperience. But this was pathetic, and so much so that it bordered on parody. Setting the report aside, looking at his father from the corner of his eye, the heir had to check a smile at the hypocrisy of it all.

"Turks broke into my room, torched the place, killed my secretary's substitute, destroyed my lap top, and left letters in spray paint saying they did it?"

"Yes, yes, horrible isn't it?"

Horribly executed, he almost said, but didn't. Paternal duties done for the moment Alex waved a hand, mutely dismissing his child as if he would shoe off a fly.

In all of Rufus' recollection that was the most civil conversation that had passed between them in the last five years. Running a hand through his hair, Rufus turned abruptly to study the darkening grey sky. Dancing on the dagger fine edge of outrage and amusement, his control could slip, so Rufus turned away. Clenching and unclenching his hands, the younger Shinra stared at the slate hued sky with unblinking, burning, eyes.

"You're expected on in ten minutes, boy, go up and answer their questions."

_Answer the questions you're too damned lazy to answer yourself!_

"Power has its price, if you're going to be a vice president of this company boy, you'd best start earning that pay."

_As if I hadn't been "earning" it already, I'm not at your damned beck and call, you bastard!_

"- and don't deviate from the script..."

At that prompt Rufus let out a harsh laugh. It was colder than the chilliest night in the eternally winter bound "Icicle Area", he turned from the window, let his father see some of his scorn in his expression.

"I wouldn't dream of... deviating... from your lies, _father_."

Pretending not to be phased by the tone -perhaps truly untouched by the open hate that was shown- Alex Shinra leaned back into the embrace of his throne. The mammoth chair that marked his place as president was a throne made of black leather and gold highlights. The desk set before the chair was a dark hue, stained to an artificial brown-black. Intimidation was it's goal, size and darkness were supposed to be factors that inspired fear, but the doughy man wedged between those symbols was a joke. Tilting his head to the side, Rufus really _looked_ at his father and decided that the man looked like an overdressed marshmallow about to be smashed between two boulders.

"Get out of here, get to work."

The fat man waved a hand, not even bothering to look his son in the eye. Rufus nodded, then turned on his heel, his hands shaking despite the fact he held them clenched into fists. He took the elevator, though the stairway would have been a thousand times faster, and the second those steel doors hissed closed behind him he paced the confines of his self-confinement like a raging panther-hound. When the doors finally hissed open at his destination Rufus was somewhat taken aback to find two Turks standing at attention on either side of the door. He'd half expected two SOLDIERS considering his father's preferences.

These weren't "dress" Turks either. Armed to the teeth, knife hilts poked out from thier pockets, a pulsing rhythm of many colors licked at their wrists, like a mako battery watch gone mad. They were clad in the comforting shades of navy blue, and in their steady hands rested materia laden shotguns. Without prompting the taller one turned to him, the black shades obscuring his eyes.

"Sir, Tseng sent us, we're your escorts for the press conference." The tone was bland, without inflection, as if the speaker were an automation and not a man. Some Turks were like that on the job, Rude certainly was, it helped them keep their sanity during their darker work.

"I salute your superior for his fore-sight." Rufus hazarded. "Would you please tell the SOLDIERS on duty that they are dismissed?"

"Sir," The senior Turk noted in that no-tone voice, "there were no SOLDIERS."

To that innocent seeming announcement Rufus' face flushed crimson. His hands shook with rage. That _bastard_ , first ordering his rooms destroyed than sending him into a mob (and it would be a mob, in all senses of the word) without anyone to guard his back! Taking a deep breath, willing the rage down, Rufus shoved his shaking hands into his coat pockets.

He smiled then, a brittle hate filled smile, and to that the Turks looked at him and shifted a half step.

 _Honor_ your _script, you jack-ass? Damned if I will after you try to throw me to the damned wolves without a guard! I'll honor your god-damned script all right!_

"Well then gentlemen, shall we be off?" Rufus asked. His eyes were alight with the heady passion that was hate.

Two silent salutes met his pronouncement, and Rufus turned on his heel, storming towards the glass entrance of the Shinra building. Plans to make his father seem the stupid ass he really was were forming on his mind even as the opening words of salutation and formal greetings were forming on his lips.

" _Just go down there and show the company and the world that it has a vice-president and everything is back to normal._ " Alex Shirna had ordered.

"I'll show them that they have a vice president!" Rufus hissed to himself as that final space was passed and the glass doors were slugish in their opening. His tone was shaking as badly as his hands at the moment. "And you damned well better be watching!"

XXX

Alone, in his office, the president stood and after a moment's thought he walked to the glass window. He looked down, and seeing that the small speck in white was approaching a sea of black bearing flashes he grunted. Satisfied that his orders were being followed Alex Shinra threw himself into his chair and picked up the remote. He toyed with the idea of pressing the TV's "on" button, to watching what the current Vice President said. But after a moment of consideration he decided against it. He'd done enough work for one day, and the boy was nothing without the Turks manipulating him. Licking his lips, the president considered his now free schedule, with no board meetings or press conferences to oversee he didn't have a thing to do. There was nothing to keep him here... Nothing except, perhaps...

Reaching over he pressed down on the red button imbedded on his desk.

"Mrs. Yuka," He purred, seeing in his mind the sleek thing that was serving as his secretary at the moment. "if you could report to my office for a few moments?"

XXX

"Well boy, your upper plate brat didn't do half bad after all."

The room was dark, the lights were dead. Seated in Tseng's chair and savoring every moment off of his aching feet Veld nursed a half drained glass of wine in one knobbly hand. The de-seated Turk in question said nothing to his superior's praise. His slit thing eyes were half closed, his palid face bathed in the colors offered up by the television's screen. The Turk was an image of perfect disinterest, abstract eyes, limp hands, for all intents and purposes no one was home. Veld, knowing better, let out a cold chuckle. One "limp hand" was petting, the swaying motion was that of fingers caressing dark black fur in near pitch darkness.

At last, as if drawn out under pain of torture, the wrods came. Squeezed out one by one, thick with accent, and shined with pride. "No, he did not. He did not fail, nor does he fail now."

"It's not over, not yet, and they heard my voice." Veld noted. With an absent and pain inspiring roll of his wrist he set the red wine to shivering in it's crystalline confines. "Old man Shinra heard it, and he knew it for what it was."

"And what will he try a dead man for?" Tseng countered. "For killing a woman he now betrays at every chance he gets, for the woman whom he openly scorned even before her body had cooled? He has little to fear of you, or from you, so let him know and wonder and lose sleep over your _reappearance_."

"He might try to bring you down again my boy, he might strike out again but be more thorough about it."

With a shrug Tseng set the glass to his lips and drained it all in one pass.

"Let him try." The Wutia growled with quiet hate. "As he always has, the result is ever predictable."


	36. Private Winter part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I want to get into Tseng's head a little more and detail the differences between the Continental and Wutia cultures and thought processes. I also want to tell a bit of his past and bring some of his perspectives to the table. Hence this story. I'm not too sure how old Rufus is, pre-teen, but beyond that I imagine him being very young and precocious but I'm unable to nail down the exact age. Does borderline purple prose warrant a warning, this was also an experiment in style so I suppose some warning is due. Anyway enjoy this odd aside.
> 
> Also I realized just how little of my ff7 I've transferred over. I sooo need to fix that and thanks for waiting so patiently for me to get back to work on this piece. I didn't realize I'd let it slip away from me for so long. Expect at least three stories in this series to go up soon and some other tales related to this 'verse, to come up soon.

Private Winter:

Fire and Swords

 

Steel was said to be hot, warmed with the blood of enemies, held in the hands of warriors filled with passion. The sword was the archaic form of execution, sword and flame, and the forging fire. All were symbols to the Continental mind, all were linked, and like most Continental symbology it was all most primitive and linked by the blatant chains of cause and effect.

Heat the stone, warm the blade, the blood of the living was warm, the blood of the hater is warmer than that of the mundane soul.

Thus, with such beginning truths as a template, blades and flames become intertwined forever more.

But few consider the sword in its stages. Yes, it is born of the flames, but the fire is cooled in icy water. Sired in passion, tempered in pain, immersed in chill calculation, many swords don't survive the blows and the depths. The flawed shatter, and the pieces are then buried, and life moves on.

None of that is expressed in the wild-eyed romantic's tale. And despite his studious detached manner he does dabble in the frivolous. In younger days many such romances graced the shelves of his home. No longer now. For when the rhythm and rhyme of such works became obvious his interest –and amusement- in them declined. Swift as wind, chill as a winter touched carrion, he had simply picked those flawed texts from his shelves and expelled them from his walls.

In their place hung emptiness, not nostalgia, for nostalgia is never permitted. Nostalgia implies weakness, a fondness for a place and time in the past. In this world where the present –not the past- hold the most relevance he does this much to toe in line. The fickle aspects of his past are quickly discarded, leaving no trace of their passing.

And life moves on.

But, unlike the handful of present obsessed in his acquaintance, he does not discard the significant. The Rootless and the damned, only the thin skin of life divides them, and the life stream being savage and glorious as it is one can cross that fluid line and never realize that _this time_ it is the final crossing. So he buries the relevant past, and nurtures it. Knowing from experience that truth will rise like trees from the depths of his subconscious as needed.

One truth, fast to rise, impossible to uproot, has been duty. He adheres to the hard course, honesty is uttered in a stark glory that resembles the Stream which Leviathan lies. That hardness, that bluntness and abruptness, are the trademarks of cruelty born from necessity. Not all trees sprout in spring after all. And his mind has endured a multitude of winters.

His manner is so chill -like the edge of good still yet to be warmed by the bracing hand of a warrior- that those in his acquaintance say that it is a wonder his very life breath does not steam upon the air. To those jests he shrugs, rolling off the good natured mannerisms of others as if it were water from his back.

In truth, it is less than water. But humor seems to be the main form of communication amongst these strange people. And -bitter truth is told best with candor- humor is better than the few alternatives offered by extreme passion.

Balance in indulgence is an idea new to these people, not forgotten, but oddly enough, new. The rival civilization of his mother's blood is a young one, despite all its years. And he finds that oddly frightening. But take in effect the matter of upbringing. Having been raised on stories of men driven to madness and death by an overabundance of indulgence and passion from the youngest age does instill a sense of serenity in one's place. It also drives home a kind of trauma, a festering fear of a lack of control. Youth taught lessons are brought home fastest, yes, but their effects can often divert beyond their purpose. For the young learner is not whole, not formed, and the echoes of voices remembered in childhood may fade into the mist of time but the words are etched with fire.

And ever burning.

And thus from burning we are prompted to complete the cyclic motions of logic. And so we come back to swords, and remember the fires that were a part of their making. The flames, gaudy red and brilliant orange, the heart of the fire cast in the hottest of hues, white-blue... Violate tongues slide over the offered stone, and the hammer descends. Driving slag from iron and rebirthing iron to steel.

And like rebirth, birth is a thing of pain, of sacrifice.

It's a thing of taking and giving, and the end result of that exchange sits naked upon a length of wood. A line of silver, tinted green by the light set above it. It serves as a length of artic cast from an earthen mold. In the black of dark, this mini-world of lightlessness that he has willed. Beyond that world, in one extreme, is an invitation of empty space. A floorless path to descent, a melding of physical laws that have been given flippant names such as "Newton" and "Murphy". The other leads down, but each step is sheathed in suspended earth, it's as safe as it could be made, for there are no laws for a tame fall.

Setting his chin upon calloused hands he considers the blade of steel born, and its macabre task. Not all blood is hot when it hits steel. _Un_ -Impassioned can be the hand that guilds the sword or steadies the gun.

Calculation, distilled and consumed on a regular bases, can still any fire and leave the crimson streams of life a lukewarm ruby.

He considers that lukewarm caress, that kiss of the Lifestream, and considers the steel, and its purpose.

Then he recalls the note, and the passion that had made him throw it aside in anger.

His passion that had guided those motions was worn down by the end of an afternoon. In its place takes a numb resignation, a chill understanding. Ever a victim of his own private winter, Tseng considers the word that he was honor bound to keep. The order from parent to child was a spoken legacy, and even as numb as he was he still hated that legacy as much as he hated the woman who'd dictated it.

But, as he often told his subordinates, orders were orders. He could follow through with them and embrace what he hated -becoming a hypocrite to his core- or he could take the hard path. The road without median.

Either way, the first step would entail taking hold of cold steel.

With a sigh he reached forward, impact hardened hands closing on the leather of the handle and turned the weapon over so it's point faced him. He considered his reflection, split in twain by the razor honed point, he smirked into that image, finding it fitting for all its unsubtle reminders. That smirk though slid from his lips, and those lips pressed into a thin line of a frown as he heard the quiet tread of someone approaching. With an inexpert hand he turned the blade, his ineptitude was such that steel parted the arm of his sleeve with a quiet hiss. Wincing a bit at the sound -it seemed far too loud for the death silent room- he leaned back into his chair and considered the line of gold light that made a thin slit along the far wall.

He spoke, before the blow could fall. The sound of fist striking wood would be too loud, too profane, for his office.

"Enter."

And the line expanded into span. Roughly rectangular in shape, he stared at the encroaching light through a haze of pain, so used to was he to his self-bound dark. Spying the profile through a mist of tears, that figure sheathed in the false gold of well-timed and tinted illumination, he smiled and corrected himself.

"Enter, and be welcome."

 


	37. Private Winter, part 2

Private Winter:

Of Fire, Ice, Thirst and Cleansing

Duty, like life, is supposed to be a stream. Thrusting forward, unforgiving, ever forward, and straight forward besides. Yet, despite all its relentless means, water must retain all the illusions and subtly befitting it's reality. Occasionally though, by the whim of Leviathan, the pre-cut paths are broken in one white caped surge.

A high pitched voice natters on his ears. That voice's owner tries the bonds of his emotions, unwittingly, most innocently. And that alone keeps him from lashing out. Despite all pretense and raising to the contrary, the boy is innocent. Taking silence as an invitation the small form scrambles into its predetermined place. The boy takes his rest in the chair opposite of his own; the child's posture has nothing of graceful repose to it.

Rest for rest's sake, without having been earned, is a forbidden thing. One rests after labor, after years, yet this child who has too few years to be weary from and too few tasks to seek refuge from. At least, so the wise say. No one "says" how trying a war of petty hate can be. Ears filled to overflowing the boy had listened to whole symphonies of bickering, he's seen how such a shrill melody peaks into violence, and has begun to be initiated in the savagery as words fail and blows fall.

He's young yet, in time that few will become many. As years compile and experience is tendered, the blows will fall quite often.

Unavoidable is tragedy, especially amongst the path driven, the predictable. And he's yet to meet a Continental who does not pick the middle path. Monochromatic and a thing of high tides and smooth waters, there is nothing worth seeing in the middle path. For the median is mediocrity and blandness at it's heart.

"Lowsung,howeseetgoelinguh."

He sighs, his usual greeting to nonsense. The boy is sharp, he senses the confusion that is carefully –so very carefully!- tucked under that façade of exasperation. The greeting is revisited, slowed, but not to an insulting extent.

"Hello Tseng, how's it going?"

Lies are sugar and sweet, pretty confections without substance. He's heard them a hundred times. In music they are sweet notes without substance, they wander the scales and bars of melody listlessly, then fall into silence. Their passing can be pleasing to the ear, like the metallic ting of a bell; the pitch lingers on in the ear, causing some small damage to the organs of hearing despite their hedonistic appeasing nature.

How many "wells" has he heard uttered that are like the one he feels building on the tip of his tongue? The mere pressure of sensible syllables utterly breaks a false truth, collapsing the cadence of speech and composure in one blow. A hundred little lies make the sweet tone inherent to falsity sound out in discord, and he's heard enough falsity to tell gold from stone.

So he sighs, and picks neither the confection laden path nor the sketchy track of verbal evasion. He takes up truth, as always.

"The day… passes…"

Ironic, how such a stark truth sets off an avalanche. Bare truths always do, he notes, and for that realization the weight of unpleasant duty is alleviated for a span. He smiles, a lean twitch of the lips, but to his guest a smile is a smile and never mind it's subtleties. And so the questions come with such minimal invitation. Fast and so quick that they are hardly thought out. The speaker stutters his own language, as tongue and mind compete in their usual head long race. And, most rare and precious of all, there is no damning hitch of reserve to the child's tone.

As he nods and shakes his head to the face of that vocal barrage Tseng considers the matter of taboo. Affection is taboo, as is passion, as is hope. To aspire means malcontent with the station one is born, and there are many many stories –most of them gory tragedies - of those who fall victim to an overabundance of passion. Hope as alien a thing to his world as the Continental's delusion of luck, life, death, and all that occur between those extremes are the lash of karma and the whim of Leviathan. Duty, to one's country, to one's honor, those are the only absolutes in the world. Yet torn from the country of his birth, shunned by those of his bloodline, he has nothing of "worth" to protect. And honor without his people's template is merely whim in disguise.

The unborn draw deep from the breast of Karma, and sins, like a mother's milk, slide down parched throats, satiating a hunger so primal it is beyond words. Cowardice, pathos, ambition, past souls whose lives were thick with such flaws find that the next time around they are brought low. Born into low station, into low wit, such are the punishments, delivered at birth and never to be discarded. Every _thought_ of dishonor form the shackles the drive the self down into depths best left to beasts.

Yet, the lives of Da'cho teach that even beasts have their place. The most monstrous to the most noble, all have a niche to fill, and upon finding it they must never deviate. The earth might be rough, but the stream cuts its path with force and elegance, and it never changes course. Save when Leviathan intervenes.

Perhaps it is a sign, this white on white herald. Perhaps the one path that all must follow is too fierce, and the pool at its end is little more than a stagnated pool. He'd rarely wondered at the place where the results of the per-determined would have mingled. He had always been fixated on the image of a white flecked stream, rushing ever-forward, but all mountains must end, all declines were finite after all. And the pools, the final slowing and resting, where earth and stream meld into one once again, what of those? One could not forget that every motion lead to a conclusion, every beginning would have an end that would in turn become yet another beginning. He wondered of the thirsty maw terra in form, ever thirsting. The earth was a parched thing, Phoenix scorched, and it would drink deep from the stream. For the earth was a basic thing, lacking of elegance and control, and as all primal things are it would be spurred by a hunger too primal for words.

How different than was the earth from the unborn? Innocently both partook in the brutal, the unclean, to satiate a thirst beyond language.

Having run out of topics to chat about the boy considered the object he'd been trying not to mention. His eyes had lingered on it, ice hued sight drawn to the artic shard the lesser called steel. One hand reached, and that motion jarred the Turk from his thoughts. Reaching forward, he intersected the hand, and with a firm application of pressure pinned it to the table.

"No, Rufus. This is not a toy. You are not to touch it."

Once released the hand extended withdrew. Shaking his wrist, to indicate discomfiture –never pain, for Tseng had not pressed down that hard, and the boy is not one to fuss as his peers constantly do- Rufus let out a little huff of annoyance.

"What's it for, then?"

Licking his lips Tseng considers the trap he's willingly walked into. He stands between the path he has always taken and the silk shrouded maze of obfuscation that his peers so adore. A red line, felt, but unseen, widens at the exertion of a mere reach. He winces from that material pain, and dredges up a grin at the obvious concern that suffuses the boy's features.

"It serves a purpose both seeped in ceremony and practicality. It's used for… killing… as all swords are, for killing and for cleansing."

"Cleansing?"

To that Tseng nods, and says nothing, letting the boy believe what he would.

A frown mars the boy's face, a thin line of disapproval that spreads into a grimace. In the silent office Tseng can almost hear the first thought as if falls upon another and a conclusion is met with a thunderous roar. The boy is, Tseng notes with a damnable mix of pride and amusement, uncommonly sharp and worldly. _Well trained_ , a part of his psyche buried but restless murmurs, _well trained, well brought up, taught control and discipline almost from the cradle_.

" _Racial_ cleansing!" The boy snaps the first word out with the heat of anger. Tseng is reminded of the firing of a gun, the first sound is a prelude of pain, suffering, and the anger in that boy's voice sounds as if it will also be a prelude… to something. If left to judge on tone alone the Turk would have expected himself to be on the receiving end of a lecture of sorts, but there is more to this Continental child than a violate surface.

With a shrug that did nothing more than sent a flare of agony up his nicked arm. To that show of anger the Turk says nothing, but silence like inaction is considered an opening amongst the Continentals.

"Why… how… You can't do anything with a sword like that!" Rufus snaps. "You're not a whole Wutia, you aren't supposed to even own one of those things!"

So the boy has learned, from history and conversation. Tseng's lips curl into a lean smile devoid of mirth yet seeped in pride. No, by his people's edicts he is not a whole Wutia, and as a result he is not a whole person. Forbidden manhood, he is never to wed, never to love, to enter this world and leave it with barely a ripple. He was never to _be_.

Turning form the child, this boy clad in white on white, Tseng stares at the dark grey sky. His reflection on the glass is a washed out thing, a dark grey smudge on a slate grey template.

"My mother died, last week."

Silence meets that announcement, silence, then the drawing in a breath, as if the boy has found some new wound and marvels at the pain it brings for the first time.

"She gifted me this sword." He continues, sculpting his voice into a bland monotone so it would not betray the passion he feels. "She gifted me this sword, and with it my heritage."

The response was slow in coming, heavy in disbelief, and choked with scorn. Each syllable of every word was so laden with a fascinating mix of passion and sense that it was like a stone to the lake of his composure.

"You're going to kill yourself, with a Wutia sword, _because your mother said so_."

Ice shatters when exposed to heat. It explodes with a flight in shards that both freeze and burn. Tseng turned, from the grey reflection and the grey world, and stared down at the boy. The Wutia exudes as much malice as he does before "demoting" one of his Turks. To that silent rage the young Shinra cringed in his chair with a whimper.

"It's a matter of custom and duty." Tseng snapped. "She broke her own vows to her own people by letting me live on in this world. She endured shame and hate, and died with that burden… that Karma, unalleviated. It is my duty, as her child, as her _son,_ to remedy that." Blindly his hand reaches, fingers scrabbling on the length of wood, seeking steel. He missed as a smaller hand than his own snatches at the weapon first. But the hand is too small, the weapon is meant to be held by an adult, and no child –no matter how precocious- could lift a blade meant for two hands.

Steel hits the wood sheathed floor with a _ting_ , the sound is as soft as a bell, and as deceptively sweet.

Drawing a deep breath, sheathing his anger as if it were a weapon, Tseng considers the wan child. Seeing the heir of the company, - the unwanted, unloved, son of a modern day lord- with such a pitiful defiance of discarded steel at his feet, Tseng gathers his composure.

"You should leave." The Turk whispers, offers a course of honor and composure for the shaken boy. "I've… made arrangements, there are others to take my place, others more competent… more compatible with your needs."

"But…" Eyes wide, ringed round by the moisture that alludes to some horrible breaking within, the boy's tortured response comes out like a howl. "-but they aren't you!"


	38. Private Winter part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next story is called "Cultural Appreciation Day" and should be out soon.
> 
> You know I probably should set up some sort of progress meter... I think I'll do that on the series main page in two days depending on how much time I can set up.

Private Winter

Religion and Ripples

 

Wisps of grey leak between small tea green teeth. With a soundless sigh the staff crumbles, coating jade teeth and jaw with a fine flaking of grey. Unnoticed, unseen, he is shunted to the far corner, and from there is permitted to watch. And for watching, he _sees_.

Worshipers kneel in stages. The descent in a thing loaded with care, for one must gather the hems of robes, the edges of kimonos, and the hilts of katanas. Some impediments are to be held close, others diverted, a handful spread. He watches eyes wide and unblinking this first motion of descent. Along the edges, in the shadows of their peers of parents, lay the slowest of those who fall. Out of the gathering the elders are the slowest of all, and in the race for last the very young quickly follow the very old, but fear –not pain- is their greatest foe. Still, fear is conquered, and when knees touch earth the spine begins its fluid arch that ends only when the forehead is pressed against the floor. Arms spread, and brace the form, and it is only then, once secure yet subservient, that the prayers begin. Words bring peril of the speaker kissing dirt, yet in all the times he's watched the much anticipated scene of worshiper kissing earth has never occurred.

Words said to contain the spirit of the Serpent are uttered, yet these words are not so base a thing as prayer. There is no leading; these are no sheep that are gathered round an altar, with a priest bright eye to drive their thoughts here and there. No, all that is offered is old rhyme and reason, then silence, silence in which to think. And, of course, the scent of incense long spent. Amongst that faint smelling haze the Serpents material coils are caressed by the less substantial curls of smoke. Thus Stream meets Fire, and those of the Stream embrace the Earth.

And thus all are connected, by elements too base and primal that the gift of language can only call them simple things and marvel at their endless wonders.

He enjoys the silence, and though forbidden to worship with the others he comes to see day after day.

The sights never bore him, though he fidgets from time to time, when the sitting and kneeling of those around him painfully bring to fore the fact that he must always stand.

But still he comes, diverting discomfort for a time. He watches the deliberate, ponderous, fall, the coils of smoke and coils of snake entwine in their silent dance. But most of all _he sees_. He sees the ripples in which the people fall, the ripples from which they rise, and takes silent lonely delight in watching the cycles begin and end once again.

People and their lives are merely parts of a cycle. Time is a force, and like the tide it is often compared too, Time is relentless. It goes forward, sculpting the hardest bones of the earth than pulls back, all at the mysterious drive of the moon. Seasons are the gowns of the vain mistress, the earth, Da-chao is the aspect… the faces of a life lived. Da-chao is beyond emotion, yet best represented by emotion itself. A man driven by hate, by passion, by love, striving for enlightenment, all are Da-chao, the high and the low.

It is only when all striving is ended, when life and peace coincide for the whole of one’s life that one is freed from Gaia, from the many faces of Da-chao, and from the cycles of death and rebirth that ties one to Leviathan. Freed, imbued with truth, one ascends to join the celestial and gaze upon the earth with impartiality upon the wonders and horrors of the cycles of heaven and earth.

To those who have not transcended, who are choked by Karma of a corrupt bent, for those who are entranced by Da-chao's facades and endless dance, life ends only to begin again.

"No, you're not going to… to…"

Passion chokes the words, making the mere idea of honorable death –self sought, but honorable besides- impossible to speak. He almost supplies the word, almost, but those water rimmed eyes would shatter at his forced calm. So he says nothing, only watching, an odd chill settling on his spine.

"I won't let you, you hear me! I won't." A foot strikes earth, such a childish gesture of defiance. To that Tseng almost smiles, but again the cold forbids expression.

 _He is too young to understand_ , Tseng notes sadly, _far too young to understand that passion and purpose of the mortal bent must pale before the needs of the cycle_. A deviant, no matter how small, is abhorrent, it is… as the blackest sin is to those of the Continental church. Do you tolerate the murderer, the miscreant, the thief? No, you mutilate the one who indulges in the lesser dark to teach the whole the folly of defiance. As for those who fall the greatest depth, for those who plumb the blackest of waters and defy and desecrate the very order of the world… only annihilation will serve.

He takes a few steps, breaking away from the back of his desk. From the corner of his eye he sees that the boy follows, not behind as most think of following, but rather in stance. The child shifts, taking a lone guard over the chill steel, as if by the bracing of his small body he could defeat one whose purpose was to take both sword and obligation.

Hands clasped behind his back, he walks. Each step is slow, precise, and his thoughts are of death and like death. Chill and resolute, unbending and unbroken. Holding to his silence and determination like a shroud he uses both to shield his audience from the truth. Under the placid façade there is a storm that is part rage, part fear, part frustration, and –as always- is born of hate.

A warm line tickles his wrist, trickles past his wrist, and he is reminded again of the matter of hard edges and shaking hands. For that reminder he sighs, and recalls that by indulging in all this acting he is merely holding off the inevitable.

"We all die eventually; would it be so different if I were to do this after say… hearing that I was going to die of some horrible disease?"

"Yes, but even if you were sick you shouldn't anyway!"

Meeting the illogical with logic the Turk complied with his charges' unspoken need for an argument.

"Why not?"

"Because you shouldn't!"

To that Tseng does smile, though sadness pools in his eyes like unseen unfelt tears. To such a flimsy barrage mere repetition would suffice in bringing the boy's composure and this pointless conversation, to a quick end.

"Why not?"

And it was then, with the red caress of warm running down his wrist and his eyes thinned with impassionate triumph that the winter of his life was shattered.

"Wh- What would you do if I did? If I got sick and just gave up?"

His mouth opened, but no words would come. Images of the time the boy's arm had been broken due to an "accident" flashed through his mind. The anxiety, the frustration, and the guilty knowledge that though the boy wasn't even his own by blood the sight of the child in pain was like a knife slowly twisting…

"You… you are a Shinra, as close to a Lord that we have in such times. Lords do not simply give up." Tseng managed at last.

"Well you're a Turk, I thought you told me Turks don't give up, not ever!"

XXX

Veld stood before him, pacing, slate grey eyes flashing in hate. "By God almighty, I've done hits before, but this… this is worse than just a hit."

A file was open on the desk. As Veld's second Tseng had rights and privileges, he exercised both to approach the distressed Turk's desk and lift up those papers. After looking up the name of Veld's victims Tseng felt his stomach clench on sickness.

"He wants to watch…" The younger Turk breathed in horror. "…as you kill his _wife and son_?"

"He's got the exact time and place down pat."

"The child isn't even past his…" Choking the Wutian words down that Veld could not understand and that he does not have the patience to explain, Tseng forces the words out past a growl of hate. "He isn't a man, not even an… adolescent, and you're to kill him and his mother, the mother first so the boy can watch?"

Veld said nothing, had stopped his pacing, but there was no repose in his rest. His hands were clenched into heavy fists. Wordlessly he pummeled the top of his desk, never minding that after the ninth blow he was leaving droplets of red with every blow. Only when the blows stop, and that mad rage is out of those old aged eyes, does Tseng dare a query. Only one, and the scathing glare he is given for it is more chilling and empty than the gaze of a basilisk. Still the Wutia asks, and the question hangs between them, unanswered.

"Are you going to do it, are you going to kill them both?"

Less than a week later, when the mission went down in failure-

… _one woman found dead eight hours later. Her body so mutilated that it's unidentifiable, the teeth were removed, the hands lopped off and burned so no mere "record" can offer a trace, the police carry on. Working non-stop, for the murder was carried out on the grounds own by A. Shinra and to fail in a case of that magnitude would be the same as to see them all replaced by SOLDIER in a fortnight. Never was there a more golden prod for perfection than execution…_

-he held a gun, his superior grinning at him like a damned thing on the other end. They stand in a dark nameless alley in the slums. The rabble, the civilians who call themselves "gangs" and dream they are wolves in the world lay strewn about in pieces. Bloody broken, but dead, which isn't such a bad thing considering the petty lives the must have lived.

"And how does this equate in your karma, boy? This killing of your elders?" Veld taunted. His gun spent and discarded during the chase is long gone, only a knife is taken up in hand. And he holds it, brandishes it, his eyes alight with the fierce pleasure of kill or be killed mentality.

To that riddle Tseng only laughs and pulls the trigger, in the charged silence both laugh and hollow click resound. Two notes in a traitorous melody, and to this surprise Veld almost falls.

"You… you bastard, you manipulating son of a-"

"The way is clear, sir," standing back, Tseng flourished the empty gun, "there will be no investigation."

Veld's death, as was Veld's life, was strictly classified. He didn't even hold a real office in the Shinra building; rather he had worked from home. There would be no one to miss him, for he had no living friends, and amongst the Turks one only had to say he died in duty and no questions would be asked. Veld was a dead man whom lived, and could continue to live, if he so chose, so long as he lived far far away from Midgar and its petty politicking.

Clutching his bloody side –proof of where Tseng had stabbed him during the opening exchange of their fight- Veld shook his head and looked at Tseng long and hard.

"You aren't bad, for a slant-eyed demon, boy. You've got a head on your shoulders, don't waste it, don't screw up your life like I did. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm clocking out and goin' home."

And with those parting words Veld stepped on by, indulging in the alien ideal of trust. Trust that his student would not stab him as he past, trust that his body would not fail him until he reached some distant goal, some unseen vista that was far away in time and miles.

XXX

"We don't, but…"

And he stopped, held back by duty. Self-placed obligation that forbade him a lie. All the empty platitudes -all the silken half-truths that the Continental's so loved- in the world could be hung from so simple a bunting as the word "but".

"I...I…" The boy was pale, shaking, wide eyed, and close to crying. Tseng winced away from that image, but only in his mind. His flesh was akin to stone in solidarity, and like stone he must be still, unmoving, and so he was. "Well you aren't doing anything stupid. I'm not going to let you… I… Shinra's your country and if that's so I'm your… your… uh… Lord… I guess. S… So I'm _ordering_ you not to kill yourself."

Tseng's composure didn't so much as sag as it did collapse. Mouth sagging, eyes wide in shock, he stared down at the boy who wore white on white and scorned every other color.

"That's an order, Tseng. I'm your Lord and I'm giving you an order!" The foot stamped again, imperiously, impatient, and juvenile, but lords were permitted such indulgences from time to time. "Do… Don't make me repeat myself, Turk!"

Shaking his head in wonder, -never to dispute, one does not dispute those whom Leviathan gifts with glory and authority both- Tseng could only stand and watch, dumbfounded to his core as his world fell apart.

Standing back he saw the world from eyes that weren't frost covered. He saw, and when the boy crumpled, at last brought low by a grief too raw to be anything less than agony, he reached. And the shards of his being, of his ice, rained about him as he held the boy whom at long last cried.


	39. Cultural Appreciation Day, part one

 

Cultural Appreciation Day

It seemed that today was going to be one of those days, one of those legendary "bad days" that were on par to the barely adverted crisis at Nibelheim.

On days like these he was tempted to cast his heritage, his honor, his dignity, to the very winds. It was also tempting to merely call in sick, –and he'd merrily hang the dilemma of falsehood verses truth if it would do something to advert this… hell he was being put through- but there were dangerous repercussions for his playing ill when one was not.

Orders of being sent for a "check up" in Hojo's labs flashed through his mind, and between choosing between that extreme and the sad present. It was times like these, he conceded with a sigh, that he hated his job and the world at large.

Once, mockingly, he'd have made jest of destroying said world. But having seen total destruction that made the war he'd been raised to fear appear as nothing, Tseng had learned the folly of speaking flippantly of tragedy.

Being part of a cleanup crew to a blasted town, the very bones of the earth scorched raw, the bodies of every citizen mutilated beyond recognition by both steel and flame, deformalities and death "gifted" by a sadistic hand and those gifts had been given often…

Reminding him that _that_ case was classified and therefore not to be even thought of he leaned back in his chair. The leather coated seat took his weight with the barest of creeks, secure in his seat's solidarity he closed his eyes to the clock and the doom tied to its numbers. Nursing a cup of coffee in his hand as a man would nurse his last drink on his last day, the Turk silently prayed to Leviathan for say… a tsunami to rise from the coast and retake the mainland in its aquatic grip. Yes, he would in all probability die in such a natural phenomenon, but he'd be spared the shame, the chagrin, of this upcoming foolery.

 _Leviathan sweep the bastard who thought that flaunting one's line was "good for company moral" into the coldest of hells and waters. Hell, Leviathan_ show _me to him, Da-chao strip the fool of his caution for a heartbeat, and_ I'll kill him myself _._

Prayer for the afternoon completed Tseng opened his eyes. A glance at the clock told him he had half an hour to go, and that precious time was ticking down. At the waiting's conclusion he'd be neck deep in wide eyed Continental children poking and prodding at his dress and manner. He'd have to endure a hundred stupid questions from people too young to see where cliché and truth met.

And, in the back, smiling with benign amusement, content that they'd "struck a blow against prejudice" from the hearts of some stupid rabble, would be those who would "host" this annual humiliation fest. And he'd have to smile, like they smiled, wide and without a thought of mayhem in his mind.

Even the biter comfort that he wouldn't be alone this year wasn't enough to alleviate his gloom. A recent spate of racial violence and crimes on the upper plate that weren't of Wutia bent had coaxed the Urban development team to "expand" on the "project".

But even the image of Rude and a few other dark skinned persons from the various non-Turk departments dressed in wild, gaudy clothing speaking of tribes and manners that were a many generation dead did not call a smile to his lips.

No, in a way the loss of heritage was tragic. Ironically, the people that the Shinra Company was sending up to the block had cut all roots with their ancestors. In one man's family (not Rude's for the Turk came from a very conservative Continental upbringing who had forsaken the paths of their ancestor's ages ago) or so rumor held, had one drooling elder who had tried to uphold tribal traditions. The result was that the people of that community –and that man's family- had sent the poor old fool to an insane asylum.

The whole sorry episode was undeniable proof that, despite its open cultural tolerance campaign, the Western Culture has failed in maintaining the very heart and soul that is known as difference amongst its various people. Putting the cup to his lips –and regretting his own fall, he should be drinking tea, not the savages favored brew- he rolled the bitter pungent taste on his tongue. Like people, cultures changed, but it seemed that they were all making some grand sliding scale down into some sort of personal recession of sort.

Uniformity is all nice and proper for an army, but not for people. The people should be different; and certain barriers should be respected, held sacred.

Indulging a smile that was as bitter as his drink, Tseng dabbed the dirt brown rivulets' from the corner of his lips with the sleeve of his uniform.

Out of all the revelations of his life, it was amusing to find himself a member of the liberal, anti-conservative branch. But then, the most stubborn and obstinate of his people believed that change was a sin and would never acknowledge it.

 _A few of those people_ , whispered a bitter, hateful thought, _still believe the world to be flat, too_.

Another tangle that, but he wasn't going to have the leisure of contemplating religious conflict verses scientific discovery. He had a decision to make, a grim bitter decision of which to sacrifice. Would he lay his heritage, his pride, upon the altar of the uneducated and let it be dissected by infantile wit, or should he run screaming from his office and be shot as a mad-man.

Both had their pros and cons, of course, but neither offered true deliverance and salvation. Only a case –an emergency besides- involving save the President would spare him this catastrophe.

Breaking the silence, piercing his brooding and musing, there came a call. With a shrill screech his phone rang, and he reached, never expecting it to be the answering of his prayers.


	40. Cultural Appreciation part 2

Cultural Appreciation part 2  


How Right, how Wrong

He wouldn't have demeaned himself by saying that he skipped out of his office due to the news. His salvation had come in the form of tragedy after all. But never in his life had being called to pick up the Vice President from the site of a terrorist attack inspired such a wide smile. Armed with his excuse, and a quick call to the head of Urban Development to supply him with a substitute so he wouldn't be called to take up some other demeaning task to make up for his abrupt departure.

Tseng was… well if not a happy man, one content that his plans and back up would hold. Which for a Turk was about as happy as he got.

"Rufus' sick?" Reeve's voice was a light thing, filled with concern and a myriad of humane tones like sympathy and compassion. "Go, I'll take over."

The man had never even asked what he was volunteering for, or why Tseng would willingly leave the sanctuary of his office to pick up a sick child that was not the Turk's responsibility. Reeve also didn't sound angry, fearful, or annoyed at the contact. An amazing event since Reeve was privy to almost all the crimes that had been done in the Turk leader's name during the Executive Turk schism a few weeks ago.

But that was simply _Reeve,_ forgetting everything inconvenient and forgiving everyone with the ease of a man who is untouched by the world.

For the sake of appearances Tseng had hesitated, asked the obvious (and therefore expected) "are you sure you want to do this?" and to his stalling Reeve grew irritated, and that irritation colored the tone. Never mind that Tseng was already in the Shinra Company's parking lot, keys in one hand, gun in the other, and phone pressed precariously against his jaw with the aid of an upraised shoulder.

"Tseng, don't be stupid, if Rufus is sick and the President's out of touch just _go_ already. Heavens, when has a Turk ever asked an executive permission for _anything_? Just go and pick the boy up."

"Reeve, I'm grateful..." The words of gratitude were hesitant, faltering, but he forced them past his lips. Ever since his leaving of Wutia, Tseng had been reliant on himself and therefore was grateful to no one.

What Reeve offered up was no lean chuckle, no sadist's purred amusement, and the sound was so human it was jarring. So much so that he almost jumped, and dropped the phone.

"Look, I consider Rufus as a part of my family, just take care of him and that'll be thanks enough."

Shaking his head, wondering at the foolery that would make a full grown man open his heart to a child merely because said child was a descendent of an _acquaintance_ , Tseng decided that Reeve's compassion and warmth was not foolery after all. It was madness, pure and simple.

"That's my job." The keys slid into the car's locking mechanism with a quiet 'snick' sound, he turned the key and the lock was lifted with a click. The Turk winced at the noises, for they echoed round and round in the empty parking lot.

"Taking care of information, research, and company investigations is your job." Reeve said with an odd warm superior note to his tone. It wasn't _quite_ smugness for getting the one up on a Turk, and so Tseng refrained from being offended. "That's your job, at least that's what the company paperwork says. Protecting Rufus is something you took up yourself."

To that the Turk nodded, Reeve was right -astute even- in that observation. For that, the man deserved some respect.

"We all do little things to make the work day bearable. And caring for someone, even a co-worker, it isn't that bad a thing is it?" Reeve's tone was reminiscent of say... how Rude would rib Reno for being thick...

And it was to those words the Turk smiled. Reeve was right in one way, yet he was wrong in another. With a lean chuckle of his own Tseng countered words with that sole sound than silence. Reeve had earned a few points, a few. But in the end it was a mere handful and nothing more. Certainly not enough to be worthy of the respect and care that Tseng set aside in his lean, ice marred, heart for his Turks.

"Thank you Reeve, for understanding, and good luck out there."

That inspired another laugh, and yet another amusement laden response. "You're talking like I'm going to a Wutia battle-zone, Tseng."

 _Battle-zone,_ an interesting turn of phrase, that. As if a place of battle was a little pocket of self-sustaining hell, easily contained and mapped out. Like a city block or a span set aside for construction. A Turk’s truth teased his throat, - _how battle wasn’t, couldn’t be, there were ripples and rise and fall that the mere idea of containment failed to compensate for for it was the kin of mapping and maps were ever two dimensional_ \- and he swallowed it down expressionlessly. He wouldn't lie, not quite, but he would offer enough of his truth that it would to satiate the abnormal morals that had survived his rise in the Turks.

"You'll feel like you're in one."

"Probably not." Reeve countered. "I like children, even if you don't."

Lip quirking in one corner, Tseng only shook his head in amusement and pulled the door of his car open.

"I need to go." Was all the Wutia Turk said. And with those final words he hung up, leaving the Continental executive to listen to the bweep of a dial tone and nothing more.


	41. Cultural Appreciation Day part 3

Cultural Appreciation Day part 3

The faces of Da-chao

_Da-chao is a man of a hundred thousand faces, he's a man who's lived a hundred thousand lives. And after his final life, is hundredth thousandth life, when final death came at long last did he arise. Shaking off the mantle of flesh, his very skin caught aflame as the passion and dispassion of his lives mingled. And on the rise of flame and smoke did he arise, and the smoldering of his experience was so vast that it darkened the very sky above. Chastened by the rise of mere remains, the fires that were his pyre strove higher and higher, breaking from earth, and doting the heavens for they fractured as they ascended._

_And thus the remains, and the dark, and the light, did adorn the bare blue that was the sky, and cast it in a shroud that we now call night._

Shoving his arms into his coat, he stood, surrounded by so many faces, and marveling at their likeness. Some were soot covered, others were seeping red, of no-color tears catching the pyre just right, and almost all bore the paired facets of wide eyes and pale faces. Never mind what genetic inclination said the color of their skin was supposed to be it was pale, paleness ran abound.

He stood, alone and apart. Not one to join the clusters that consisted of the student body and squeal "oh my god" or grab at his hands and moan that the world was ending. Granted, had he been hit by the shrapnel he _would_ be moaning, writhing, or most likely dead, but he hadn't been hit, and therefore decided that silence was what he’d like to indulge. The small bench he had abandoned after the first blast lay in the shadow of the building he often lingered. The building was quiet, rather lumpish in shape –it was a sad victim of the school’s attempt to seem modern - and more often than not deserted. He'd often leaned against its flank, laptop in hand, and had spent his half hour lunch break writing reports from the company or gone over his e-mails.

In truth, the "building" whose hue and shape made him think –with a small shudder- of the cafeteria’s attempt at mashed potatoes was an empty storage shed. It had not been empty a month ago, but that was a result of petty theft. The items stored within were stolen and in fear the principal had termed the shed "unsecure" and had spirited the remnants away.

Long ago dubbed "a drag" and "boring" by his peers, the place had been scarred with graffiti, cleaned up, than scarred again. Knife strokes left on windows were harder to wipe off than paint, so the teacher's association had let things stand. Seeing that there markings were being ignored the vandals had gone off to other, riper, targets.

Once the vandals had moved on some kids had come by to smoke, others to do drugs, or drink booze. But the spot was too open, and they'd been caught. After a string of small highly suppressed scandals, the adventurous found other places to amuse themselves and Rufus had come to make the place his own.

No one wanted it, it was no contest. So every day in that empty span that marked his break between fourth and fifth period he'd come to this place. Resting his knees, hands clasped over said knees, his laptop would be set on the groove at the buildings base (the effect was like a twisted pillar that melded with the shed's bulging flank). There, in his little pocket of visible secrecy he'd enjoy the quiet and would spend some idle time at work.

His quiet period was clearly not going to happen today. When the blast had rocked the plate he had instinctively lunged to save his computer. He'd caught it, and holding it to his side; he'd tucked the precious technology under his coat. When the reassuring presence of heat and unmarred frame told him it was still running and safe -and scorching his side- Rufus hastily saved his work and turned the laptop off. It was minimal fuss to slide the lot into the cloth casing and slip it about his hand. “Suitcase’ in hand he'd abandoned his open sanctuary, to stand at the fringes of the fire.

His eyes riveted to the sky he followed the black coil until it had thickened into a pillar feet idly locked on “forward”. Now he was as close as a thin ribbon of yellow tape and grim faced adults would permit. Red-yellow fingers clutched at the sky and made an ever moving line between the ascending black and the descending flame. Fires cradled in the grasp of steel the burning reeked of chemical, and metal, and if one could judge by smell flame wasn't half as clean as the poets said.

Curiosity assuaged, Rufus shifted his grip suit case and left the fire to burn itself out. The school busses were made of steel, steel and leather, the flames would have precious little to eat up before passing on. His quiet demeanor was a vivid contrast to the chatter going around him. Some stuttering conspiracy theorist had finally found the strength to utter the most hated of words, and the idea had caught and collided into the panic, but the gathering wasn't a mob quite yet. They were still many locked in the "aimless chatter" stage, where the dreaded idea, the motive, had to catch and spread amongst the whole. He still had time to drift away, find some quiet solitude that would be unmolested by the rabble around him, and get back to work.

Lips quirking into a smile as he retraced his steps, his open sanctuary would be a good place to hide for a time, and if all went to hell faster than he had expected he could easily break in and bar the doors behind him. Ironic, he mused as he took his seat and rebooted up his computer, how AVALANCHE's attack on the upper plate was spreading fear like... well an avalanche. By striking at a place of peace, of youth, where the potential to harm innocents was so high that there could be no other motive... They'd garner a reputation of ruthlessness without leaving one body behind. To that he'd make a toast. And having no champagne, no wine, nor anything in his suitcase that could be considered a drink, he made a mute, motionless, toast to Wallace's foresight. Had Rufus been in charge of an uprising he wouldn't have made his first move any other way.

Despite the fact that he and Wallace were eventually going to be enemies the Shinra heir found that he couldn't hate the man. One who used fear was no fool, and out of all the "sins" that man was capable he truly -perhaps only-hated stupidity. And, unlike his father, he wasn't going to mark this incident as a "minor inconvenience" then forget about it. Hands settling on their place on the keyboard he was about to make an opening to Hojo's request for a raise -a gentle, but firm decline, as well as an aside that the Science branch had plenty of money as it was- when the phone in his coat pocket rang.

Checking a sigh the Shinra considered ignoring it, he was just getting started with the statement and hated to abandon it at the very beginning.

Another ring, as well as the opening of a quiet, ominous, ditty (sadly, after being subjected to the "one winged" ring tone, Rufus had adopted it, much to Reno's glee) that marked the caller as using the Turk line made him drop all reservations. One hand still resting on the keys, the other dove into his pocket and freed the device. One click later, and the phone was open, he set it to his ear, never bothering to look up from his writing.

"Rufus Shinra speaking..."


	42. Chapter 42

Cultural Appreciation Day part four

Tracks

"The school's in lockdown, they're herding everyone into the classrooms and going to keep the place locked up tighter than Hojo's labs 'till school is out."

His pronouncement was met by a quiet hum that might have been amused. Unable to see the listener's expression, Rufus reserved his judgment.

"Do you wish to remain in this _lock down_?" The Turk asked mildly.

"No."

A good parent would say, "Go turn yourself in this minute". The answering "no" would have been seen as an attitude problem, a flash of youthful defiance, and had been trampled over with volume and threats aplenty. Had a normal caring human being been on the line Rufus would have been scolded even as he was plied with questions about his well-being. Any other person would have bought the safety in numbers argument.

A Turk knew better, and this Turk knew better than to order Rufus about.

Bitter wisdom garnered in a bitter life had been enough for the half Wutia to eschew the belief that safety actually existed amongst a herd. One man with an automatic weapon or materia of any kind and more people merely equated to a larger body count.

"Then don't get caught." The Turk consoled.

"There's going to be a huge gathering at the entrance, media, parents, it's going to be a mess."

Unspoken, yet not unsaid, was the fact that Rufus knew how much the Turk hated being the center of things. And if the Wutia went openly amongst the mob he'd be seen and recognized as the man who'd "saved Shinra from the AVALANCHE attack" less than a month ago. Another quiet hum carried over the line, the noise clearly conveyed distaste, and Rufus chuckled at the familiar sound.

He'd heard that sound, a hundred thousand times in his life. If Rufus closed his eyes he could clearly see the thinning lips, the small grimace, that was more of a shrug than anything else.

Piles of unwashed clothes hastily stuffed in a closet, homework shoddily done, half finished, or a poorly planned evasion and lack of tact. All those things he'd done, and he'd encountered that expression for his transactions every single time. If it was a serious lapse the man’s black eyes would thin, the lips would part, and a scathing acidic lecture would follow. Each word thereafter would be seeped in venom; each turn of phrase would be a double edged blade. When he was younger the Turk had actually made him cry, and once -only once- the lecture had been followed up with blows when he'd gone too far over the line. During that incident he'd needlessly put himself and a team of Turks in danger, never mind he'd sprung his ankle, the Turks with him had broken bones and one of the bodyguards had a concussion when everything was said and done.

Still he smiled, at the bad memory and all, and he let out a laugh when he caught the muffled oath that Tseng muttered in Wutia.

"So, do you want to meet me here or did you want to catch up with me somewhere nearby?"

"Your pick," came the unexpected reply.

To that Rufus smile widened a bit and became a touch warm. "Find a place to park and I'll call you when I'm off the grounds."

Once Tseng would have ordered Rufus to go to ground and wait. Not too long ago Tseng would have been over protective, granted the sentiment would have been delivered in a detached chill fashion, but cold or warm, the Turk would have been overbearing. Demanding that Rufus not only wait, but that he stay put until an armed escort could be summoned and deployed. Tseng, of course, would be at that unit's head, and the second he found Rufus it would have been no-stop trip to the nearest Turk compound where he'd be put under a Turk form of lockdown.

Tseng had come alone instead of with a small army of guards, had simply settled for calling instead of storming the premises, and he wasn't barking orders. Overall, it was a pleasant change of pace.

"I expect to be contacted in half an hour, if you don't respond in that time I'm coming, lockdown or no lockdown."

Letting out a sigh Rufus "yes sirred" as he was expected to, then after a few pleasantries hung up.

Perhaps things hadn't changed all that much after all. Still, changes or no, the clock was ticking. Pocketing the phone, cradling the computer to his chest, the Shinra considered the mass of people. Recalling their authority the teachers -who had been panicking like their wards- were hollering orders and doing a hasty search. For now it would be prudent to go into hiding, when things quieted down he could make a sprint to the main entrance and hop the gate. Granted, the cameras would probably catch sight of him when he went over the gate, but he didn't have much of a choice since his time was going to be so curtailed...

Fishing out a school sanctioned ID the Shinra quietly approached the shed, a few moments later and the plastic edge caught a small flaw in the bolt lock. Rufus grinned when he felt it catch, and a few wiggles of said edge later were followed up by a most satisfactory 'click'. Smiling his most bitter of smiles -those he saved for fools and ironic situations- the heir turned the door's handle, and slipped inside. It was a dark windowless room, so much so that he couldn't even see the walls after he had closed the door behind him. Not daring to turn on the lights, the young Shinra merely fished after his phone. When his hands closed over the familiar block of plastic he flipped it open and let the small block of green tinted light serve as his illumination. With that meager light he locked the door behind him, then after a moment's listening to the ruckus outside he shuffled to the center of the room. Satisfied that he was as alone and safe as circumstance permitted he opened his computer once more. A few moments later the screen hummed to life, his face was bathed in a familiar off-green light, and he hummed a quiet tune as he opened up a few files and got to work.

It was a five minute walk from his hiding place to the main gate, that left him at the most twenty minutes to try to hack into the schools security system and feed the main gate a signal that would set the tape to loop. If he pulled it off just right he might be able to slip away without a trace.

It was worth a shot. Better to try something than to do nothing and have to give a report to Tseng on how he hadn't covered his own tracks.


	43. Cultural appreciation day part 5

Cultural appreciation day part 5

Reminisce 

_A/N:  Minor trigger warning for abuse, Tseng pushes up against a line, granted Shinra senior’s crossed it previous to this point via allusion, but here Tseng nearly does the same so I figure a warning is due._

Each word was lead, heavy, stark, and uncompromising.

"Why were you down at the edge of the plate?"

Eyes flitted ever so slightly to the left. A classic tell to a lie. Then those wide blue eyes met his, they were wide, as if in a mute entreaty for belief. The story came then, nursed on hesitance, weaned on unease, it staggered drunken on its poor sustenance, and died ingloriously with a yelp of pain to mark its passing.

Pale face marred now with a fresh, raw span that was swelling by the moment, the boy staggered back, blue eyes wide in disbelief. Tseng shook his hand out, as if brushing something noisome from his fingers. To that stunned silence he offered no comfort, no platitudes. Lifting his hand, spreading the digits just so, he considered with all due seriousness the hand that had struck. It ached, ever so slightly. Inspection complete he lowered his hand, clasped the aching limb by the wrist, he clasped one in the other, as if by obscuring it he could undo what he'd done.

"The truth, Shinra." Tseng whispered.

Disappointment followed anger, like the hilt followed the point of a blade. Both ends of the weapon were weighty, and both had their purpose. Having struck out with one end, he allowed the blunted edge of his disappointment to come into play.

If nothing else the boy winced more from his tone than from the blow.

"No lies."

"I…I…"

"I've one man near death with his head split open in ER and another who's having both legs set in a cast this afternoon. Doesn't that entail some sort of explanation? As a leader of the Turks, with both of my men in such sad shape, there must surely be a reason for what has happened to pass. I imagine," he added, arch tone melding with one elegantly raised eyebrow, "that the explanation is going to be a good one."

Tears came then, pain realized and acknowledged. He stood, impassive through the barrage of emotion… Guilt gnawed at him, but he was a Turk, such a paltry thing as guilt had never stopped him before. Tolerant in some aspects, intolerant in others, he waited, his foot taping an impatient clip on the tilted floor. It came then, the truth, half choked and punctured with whimpers.

Lips curling in distaste, he almost shut the boy up before the story was halfway done. But he'd paid for this story in a hard coin. Pain caused and pained garnered had brought out the truth, he'd be damned if he didn't endure it to the end.

Quick with his mouth and born to a silver tongue the young Shirna had persuaded his guards to relax, to lower their vigilance, and under a façade of playful cajoling Rufus had coaxed the two new Turks to take him to the edge of the upper plate.

The bait, curiosity, and from a child as restricted as Rufus was it was inevitable that he fail to such a temptation.

What none of them had expected was a group of terrorists had bothered to climb from the lower plate to the upper. The mode of entry of the attackers marked them as fanatics; the fact that they'd attacked with bent pieces of metal and their fists and tried to overpower two Turks lead to the deaths of many of their number. Still, some had gotten away, he growled at that knowledge, his hands clenched to the point that the aching one flared into fresh agony and his knuckles went white.

Rufus' voice trailed off at that sound, he cringed back, as if expecting to be hit again. To that look of faintly veiled terror Tseng turned away. Guilt, he learned, could have sharp fangs that would merrily rip into the innards as cruelly as any bullet.

Silence fell, perhaps fear abated, he wasn't sure, but the boy's next words brought him back to himself with a poorly concealed start.

"Tseng... your hand... it's bleeding."

He looked down at that prompt. Considered with all due seriousness the hand and the small rivulets of red that ran down between the fingers clasped to restrain. He’d spread then, tipped the nails just so sothe damage was optimal, even if the flesh was his own. He winced then, pain realized was pain felt, and with a grimace unclenched his fingers ignoring the iron and red on both.

"Am... am I in trouble? I'm sorry Tseng, really I am, I didn't mean..."

Neither had he. But not meaning harm and still doling out pain were the stones that paved the Continental's hell. He smirked at that knowledge, at that reckoning.

"No Rufus, you are not in trouble. You made a mistake, but so did I..."

Mistakes, he would learn, were part of the motor that held the stone of broken barriers together.

And he'd break down his barriers, (no matter the cost, for keeping them up was more costly, even if he’d have to sink so low as to make error and recompense again and again) one at a time. It was a slow agonizing, process. The brick wasn't cheap, but the pall of loneliness and an empty existence looming over him spurred him on. Overall, it was a death and rebirth of sorts. Reminiscent of the Phoenix that had razed an empire of bronze and brought his people low in that far ago time when the Continentals were no threat to his people. They had been a race of amusing savages then, unschooled in the ways of Leviathan and materia.

Now by fluke, by right of war, and of resource, they were masters of the world.

He smirked at memory and revelation both. The car hummed around him, he hadn't bothered to still the engine. No radio played some Continental tune, for he hated most of their music, and he didn't quite dare to listen to a Wutia CD whilst waiting. In the broken silence of mechanical purring he waited, the still was filled with voices and memories.

" _No, not that fork, that's the salad fork, not the regular fork." Rolling his eyes the young Shinra sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"_

_His own voice sounded a quiet murmur in Wutia. A younger voice echoed, fumbling over alien words and stuttering on an odd emphasis._

" _Softer, gentler, the letter may look the same but the sound is different."_

He made an odd sight, a Wutai in Wutai dress sitting back in a black car whose model - _a slew of arcane number and half codes, perhaps one of the younger Turks could decode it, all he’d known was that he’d tried the vehicle and agreed with the reviews, some materia reinforcement had smoothed out what security concerns remained and he was content_ \- was one which the most wealth of Continental would covet to own. Still lost in the mire of amusement at the contradiction Tseng didn’t quite loaf, but he was far from at attention.

When the phone sounded out he opened it to spite pose with seemly speed. Before he could even say "Tseng speaking," he was cut off by a cheerful voice on the other line.

"I'm clear, where are you?"

Checking his wrist watch he smiled. Ten minutes early, not too bad for a half trained rookie. Not bad for a Shinra, not bad at all. The effort, unplanned for but presented flawlessly –and early besides- earned the boy some merit.

"No materia, no back up, and a tight time limit, I'm impressed." Tseng offered the praise as warmly as he could. As he must. Because the Continental needed such things it seemed.

"You forgot I have my computer with ahh… Elena's specialty files put in." Rufus countered, losing some of his bravado under the warmth of the Turk's praise. By tone Tseng suspected the boy might possibly e blushing, or fighting back one. "Anyways, school security's a joke, Reno could have pulled it off dead drunk."

"Still, it was a good effort, and you weren't even equipped for specialized evasion practices." The Turk offered magnanimously. "So I will say well done and we'll leave it at that, shall we? I'm currently parked at the "Box" franchise where Fifth and Junion intersect."

Wrinkling his nose, as a whiff of cooking meat and oil teased his nostrils the Turk grimaced.

"If you could hurry, I'd appreciate it."

"Alright, I'm coming. So, how did your cultural diversity speech go?"

"Reeve's delivering it."

"Reeve? I don't think he knows who Da-choa _was_ , or what Leviathan _is_."

Like a proper son of Wutia, Rufus set his emphasis on the important parts of his speech.

"Probably not," the Turk conceded with a shrug, never mind his charge couldn't see it.

He turned in his seat, spying a familiar figure approaching in dusty grey clothes, a breath of soot or ambitious shadows graced the boy’s head and shoulders. Frowning, knowing that only distance elapsed and proximity would establish which, Tseng waited and watched. Oddly Rufus had eschewed his coat, had tucked the accessory under his arm and was using it to screen something vaguely blockish, about _so_ long and… ah a shift in fabric revealed the lot was the boy’s computer case. Wise considering that not all out and about were immune to greed.

With the white trench coat off, the trademark dimmed, and the wealth somewhat obscured, it was a passable obscuration. And considering the madness he was dodging Rufus was wise in doing so this afternoon. Still Tseng decided that shadows or not the boy was due for a shower before they got to his office. The smell of soot was almost as bad as the franchises cooking.

"There you are, the side door is open, come in."

Folding his cell phone Tseng, tucking it into his pocket and waited. He watched Rufus' progress through a screen of black tinted glass, when the heir was close enough he pushed open the door. Oddly, Rufus hesitated on the threshold.

"In." Tseng ordered, jerking his head to convey his impatience. The smell was bad enough that he didn't want to encourage it to settle.

"About that speech…" Rufus began.

"Later, just get in. I'll drop you off at headquarters and we can talk there."

"Right." With a resigned sigh the heir slipped in and Tseng gladly closed the door on the horrible reek of what the Continental's dubbed "fast food" and with a touch of his foot set the resting car to life. Soon they were pulling ouf of the "Box" parking lot, a cold “No we aren’t getting you lunch here, didn’t they feed you before the explosion?” stilled any attempts to order anything.

Even when Rufus’ “No he hadn’t eaten yet” and lingering gaze almost turned request into order.

“The Turks have a cafeteria,” with healthy food, non-greasy, non continental, food, though not said some things just didn’t need to be, “you can wait.”

It took effort to ignore the clicking of the boy’s cell phone, he suspected there was going to be a pizza ordered behind his back, but since he couldn’t spy what the boy was doing via the car’s mirrors he wasn’t going to say anything. If done covertly the child’s meal would be it’s own reward.

For a while it was only the cars and a soft click, finally the silence was broken as they switched one plate to another, the flashing of his Turk ID got them through without any akward questions and set the child to more typing, clearly a change of address. Seeing the logo and the order page on the child’s phone Tseng decided he had no comment so long as the pizza stayed a Costan chicken spinach specialty.

If the crust was flavored with Solian spices and not buttery garlic though that might change.

Suspicious that his guard was watching him more than the road the boy shifted about, obscuring his order and flopping besides, he never wore seatbelts if he could get away with it. Luckily the car’s back seat was padded with a mastered float, barrier, and m. barrier materia, so the safety regulation being flouted would likely not have fatal consequences for the passenger.

A huffed complaint of _can’t he have a little piracy_ was met with a look that said _no, you can’t, ever_.

And the spices were swapped out, which let Tseng focus on the traffic more than the boy, something that the grin to the screen said might not be a good thing.

Another turn, still they were staying on the same plate and so Rufus wasn’t forced into a flurry of changed the address while they drove.

“You’ll…” clickety click, Tseng suspected some game rather than a girl was the effort of those clicks. Rufus wasn’t quite hormonal enough to be that fixated on a woman just yet. Also the tongue slightly bared and at such an odd angle confirmed Tseng’s suspicion of not a girlfriend related flurry. His relief tempered the irritation at the heir’s next words brought forth.

“You’ll need to call me in, to say that you picked me up, so they don’t panic back…” A gesture, meant to throw something away.

For a moment Tseng said nothing, no clicking on the adolescent’s end, the game was likely paused, the boy’s hesitance though, it spoke of old times, post a blow, preceding a verbal attack that was filled with that dreaded disappointment.

To banish such Tseng tried a smile, if felt brittle but was returned warmly.

“Oh, I already have,” to the curious look, that pale brow raised just so, the Turk smiled with warmth of his own. “A classified method Mr. Shrina, perhaps one that you’ll want to try to figure out, it might behoove you to know the trick yourself someday.”

It was a credit to Tseng’s rearing of the boy that he didn’t have to even _suggest_ a method, the boy had his computer out, Elena’s file booting, scanning phone signals, a reasonable suspicion though not a correct one. The child was so distracted by his efforts he missed another plate change. As an afterthought Tseng opened his phone, a quick code auto corrected the pizza delivery address and waived the fee for such a transfer…

Then as an afterthought he added a salad and pasta as a side.

 

 


	44. Chapter 44

CA

The assignment

It seemed as if all papers of import were coiled. Turned round and round until the end met the beginning and the edges were worn soft as a phoenix down. Turning the rolled page in his hands, he touched the line marred edge. Little veins born of pressure and perhaps a halfhearted attempt at crumpling had been made some time ago. He considered the paper, setting his fingers upon its outermost edges so the page didn't curl on itself. His black eyes roamed over the terms and conditions, and for the second reading he let out a sigh.

"I didn't mean to forget, but there was that riot at the Reactor, that attack from the slums, then that fire in the Weapon's department."

All minor crisis, first to the last, but still crisis all the same, and never mind they were minor. Still he was impassive, his expression so still that it made no parody of stone. He was as unmoving as the earth, and his narrowed eyes had something of winter's chill to them.

His reprieve from humiliation it seemed was to be short lived today.

"Why me?" He asked. It was no piteous man's lament, no childish complaint; he was in all sincerity curious as to why Rufus had chosen him.

"Because Reeve's unavailable."

"Rufus, you know Wutia, at least enough about it to forge a paper on the topic without this "real life experience" foolery. And you _aren't_ so enamored with honesty that you hold to it as the only choice to offer. So, I will ask again, why me?"

Rufus shrugged, made a non-comitial sound in his throat that didn't even border on language. To that Tseng's eyes thinned into a heartfelt glare.

"What are you not telling me, Rufus?"

The truth that had been so artlessly evaded came out in a chagrined rush. "Reeve's been asked to oversee the presentation on the Wutia project. His younger brother's best friend is one of the teacher's at the school and Reeve couldn't refuse the request. I can't fool Reeve because I can't lie about it without getting caught. He's got too many contacts in the company for me to pull it off."

"And you think he'd actually use this opportunity to get his superior in trouble by being honest?" Tseng countered.

"When is Reeve _not_ honest?" The young Shinra snapped.

To that there was no reply, none that would help. Fingers rose and fell, a drumming that those unfamiliar with him would have thought was born from impatience. In truth Tseng was putting his hand on the idea, tracing it out its parameters, and if tactile was taste it the idea must have had a bad taste indeed.

"The man's a shameless gossip." Tseng said at last, a faint grimace gracing his features. "And obsessively honest, such odd traits for one man to hold."

"Any ideas?" Rufus pressed when the Turk's silence stretched on and the man seemed ready to wait until infinity had passed before saying _anything_.

"...Mmm only a complaint." The Turk raised an eyebrow. "Why is it I always get involved with your homework?"

With a grin to hide that he was swallowing the wrong answer, Rufus provided the right one. "Because Reno's incompetent academically speaking, Rude can't do it this time, and all Elena knows is math and computers."

_And you're too nosy to not ask what I'm doing. You can't help yourself, you've never been able to._

To Rufus' candor, Tseng indulged in a snort of amusement. Tseng wasn't one for laughter; most in his profession weren't capable of it, not after training. Still, the Turk harbored a quiet sense of humor, despite all his grim experiences. Not one to advertise that he was human to his underlings, he would occasionally "slip" and share his insights and jokes with those few he considered equals and friends.

Around those rare people the Wutia Turk marked as family, he was his most human, humane, self. But those people were rare, and deliberately kept from knowing who the others of their number were. At heart Tseng was ever the Turk, and he covered all his bases with a facade that was part misinformation part intimidation.

"So, you are to experience Wutia. And I imagine taking you to a Wutia styled restaurant will not serve."

Crossing his arms over his chest, the young heir glared at his guard. "It better not."

With a heartfelt sigh Tseng stood, shoving the chair behind him. His upper-plate office was bare, with only a desk, two chairs, and little else. After vacating his tower offices he didn't put anything of value in his new headquarters. After having to bomb his own quarters to cover his own tracks the Turk had purged his workplace of all personal touches. It was a chilling -if blatant- sign that the Turk expected he would have to destroy his office again, and was prepared to do so.

And he would, never mind the loss of information, of possessions, he'd burn and wreck his own house if he needed to "disappear" again.

Still, Rufus missed those small touches. The Wutai script that was painted on hand made paper and left to dangle unframed and untouched by a Continental translation, the chocobo feather that lay in the bottom of one drawer, a many faceted mirror that once hung over the door... Rufus missed those quiet touches that distinguished Tseng’s office from all the other boring and bland cubicles that the other Shinra employees staked out as their own.

"Well then." Stepping out from behind the parameters of his desk the Turk took a few, quiet steps on the carpeted floor. He paced a bit, his expression blank as he considered something, then with something too brief to be called a smile he turned to his charge. "We should be going."

"Going where?"

"My place. My home." Tseng corrected himself with a small frown touching his features. The grimace said that he was silently rebuking himself for lapsing into unclothe Continental slang. "If you are going to be amongst the Wutai than you should dress to match the role."

That made Rufus laugh, the image of himself walking among a group of (stereo-typical) short Wutai on the Wutai homeland. He sniggered at the thought of himself in those robe for clothes and shook his head. "Seriously Tseng, it's not like we can go to the airport, pick up a ticket to Wutia, and..."

Raising one eyebrow, spearing Rufus a long look that did much to sober him, Tseng allowed that silence to settle, and the seriousness of the matter to find a proper roost. Satisfied only when Rufus squirmed in his seat with obvious discomfort, did Tseng break his silence, "and what makes you think we are going to the Wutia continent?"

As the Shinra blinked, and looked at his Turk with obvious confusion Tseng allowed himself a lean twist of his lips. "Wutai.. is not the language, nor the empire, nor a thing contained by customs. Wutai is the people. We may change, learn your language, and some of your manners, but we are Wutai. Whether we set are shrines in the shadow of the Shinra Tower, or against the mountainous flanks of the heartland, Wutia are Wutia."

And despite his years of killing, his decades of being a man of ice and indifference there was warmth in the Turk's tone. A mild rebuke too, lay in the words but that rebuke was not a subtle beast. It wasn't the turn of phrase that one colleague gives to another when a line is toed, rather an open thing, bereft of chill.

The words were quite a warning, not quite a threat, yet... oddly disquieting in one when it settled on a Continental ear.

"I never thought of you as a patriot." Rufus countered.

"I am not." The Turk answered. "I am merely a son of Wutia. I serve a powerful lord's son by what means are necessary, and that is all there is to it. Now then, are you going to sit there all day or are we going to get this silliness these _teachers_ of yours so love to inflict over with?"

The word “teachers” was loaded with scorn, and to that Rufus smiled. The only teacher's Tseng respected were those that were of the Turk stock and the only lessons he valued were those taught either by a Turk, or by life.

"When are you graduating, anyways?" Tseng pressed, he stumbled over the alien term "graduate" but then Tseng had never been a victim of the public school system himself. "Wasn't that essay on balance enough for them to show that you can actually pen something in a coherent manner?"

"I'll be out when I turn twenty three." Rufus explained, keeping an easy pace with the Turk. Since they were in the compound, surrounded by those Turks whose loyalty lay with Tseng -and no other- the Wutia was content to walk besides his charge and not behind. "My education is extended because I'm taking college classes now geared to a business sciences diploma."

Mulling over that, probably mystified by the concept of points in a setting where (for his people at least) merely coming and paying attention was enough, the Wutia Turk hazarded. "You make this school of yours sound like a prison sentence."

Thinking of the chaos after the bombing Rufus merely shoved his hands into his coat pockets and with a muttered. "It is." then took the lead.

As custom and rearing had taught him, Tseng simply nodded, and was content to follow in his lord's wake.


	45. Cultural Appreciation Day part 7

Cultural Appreciation Day

 

The robe folded one way, the sash another. He frowned, fumbling with the lengths of fabric, his mounting frustration making each action a bit more wild, a touch more uncontrolled. At last, with a hiss of pure hate he shucked off the stuff and threw it on the bed.

Sprawled on the low mat the komodo looked deceptively simple, like a bath robe. But length and cut made the garment feel alien. The soft hues and odd designs that coiled upon themselves and bordered the hem and cuffs like a stark two dimensional fringe were weird beyond words. The colors were soft, not feminine, but quiet. Each hue was a subtle thing, as was each design, and both were half hidden by folds within folds.

And he hated it, the gentle colors, the bizarre folds, and the overlarge size. He hated the clothes with a passion and longed for the familiarity of his shirt, pants, coat, combination.

Yes, the clothing was meant to fit Tseng, yes Rufus was shorter than his Turk by a half foot, but he shouldn't be drowning in fabric. He felt lost in the clothes, and being literally up to his neck in outré non-continental clothing was something he was growing to despise. To hell with the Turk's orders, he'd wear his normal clothes and that would be the end of that... Who was vice president anyways, Tseng? Hardly. Rufus was the one in charge, and if the Turk didn't like it tough.

" _Are you done yet, the day is wearing on_."

"I'm fine." Rufus snapped, meeting the Turk's Wutia with a burst of Continental speech. "Just give me a minute."

A chuckle drifted past the tinted screen -Tseng didn't have doors in his apartment, he'd had them all removed upon his moving in- was the Turk's only reply. Sandals clacked against the wood sheathed floor -another Wutia additive, like the screens, it violated the lease agreement, but the landlord wasn't brave enough to throw out a Turk- of the hall. It was that clatter and the dispersing of the shadow on the screen that told Rufus that Tseng had moved on.

A minute passed, than another, then five. He was halfway into the stupid robe when Tseng's voice crept into the room.

" _Do you need instruction?_ "

"I'm twenty, that makes me more than capable of getting dressed!" Rufus shot back.

" _Speak in a civilized tongue_." Came the chill sheathed rebuke.

Biting his lip so not to counter that rashly, Rufus allowed himself a small growl of indignation under his breath. He could have countered those words with an order to do the same, but that would have provoked a riposte, and Tseng's tongue was as sharp -or sharper- than the cleansing sword the man kept over his front door.

" _I'm.. almost.. done..."_ He stuttered over the Wutia words. Besides swearing and using it to deliver insults to those who didn't know the language, Rufus hadn't had the chance to speak it more than once a month. He winced a bit at his own accent, and rolled his shoulders as if shrugging off a bit of cold water. The robe more of less fell across his shoulders in the proper fashion, and he was confident that his arms were in the right sleeves this time. His earlier attempt had left him wearing the thing backwards, after turning it inside out in looking for a tag for reference. With a sigh he pulled the sides tight and reached for the sash. It wasn't like a belt, it didn't have a buckle, or a clip, or anything to mark what side was the right side to put where. Picking up the length of jade hued fabric he muttered an oath in Wutia. Turning the thing over, he would have consulted the designed embroidered on it, but there were no designs, no stitch, or even a sole discolored thread, that distinguished what end went where.

Turning it over in his hands, uncoiling and recoiling the fabric in his search, Rufus let out a sigh. His earlier spat of frustration had caused it to uncoil from the folds that Tseng had set it in, and knowing Tseng those folds were probably important.

_"You do not sound done, and we only have three hours in which we can wander, so you need to hurry."_

_"Why the rush?"_ The words, the language, came easier now. he didn't stutter, which was a marked improvement form the last time.

_"The services of Leviathan are set upon specific times, as are the rituals of the Western church."_

Blinking, Rufus set the fabric down, turned to the screen and its framed shadow. Tseng went to church?

 _"I do not wish to be late for the early evening ritual."_ Tseng continued, confirming the unbelievable _. "It is rare that my duties allow me to attend, and... I don't favor the night rituals."_

Figuring what the hell, the heir just wound the fabric around his stomach. He squished the elegant folds without really caring how it looked. Plucking at the sides, trying to make it appear somewhat orderly, Rufus bent down to pick up the wooden sandals from the floor. Considering them, his destination, the Shinra figured it best to sacrifice a bit of verisimilitude and keep his socks on. " _Why not_?"

_"Rituals differ from hour to hour, as do the priests who preform them. Night is a time for contemplation upon wrongs. As the dark descends so do the thoughts, for its night that foul deeds and dishonor are most prominent."_

_"Meaning?"_

_"Meaning that the night services are rituals seeped in vengeance, hate, anger, and lust. It is not a safe time to be in the temple, not for either one of us."_

"Ahhh..." There wasn't a real tactful way to answer that. Images of angry sword wielding Wutai men and women drifted in his mind and he shuddered a bit at the thought of facing down a mob. Never mind that he'd done it before. Being the target of unreasoning hate wasn't a pleasant experience, and it was one he'd go out of his way to avoid. With a grimace Rufus had to admit that Alex Shinra had more guts than he did. The Fat Man was touring the captured Wutai capital, overseeing the annual materia inspections. The president was scheduled to be gone for a week, and with only one squad of SOLDIERS and a handful of Turks that were still loyal to Heidegger at his side the Fat Man was confidently going to face down a nation of hating, bitter, people.

" _The president's down in Wutai right now_." Rufus said as he slipped his feet, socks and all, into the sandals. The wood wasn't as course as he feared. But that was to be expected considering that a layer of wool was between his feet and the shoes. Wiggling his toes, he sighed, but the noise was born of amusement. Tseng had the larger feet it seemed; there was an inch and a half of space after his heel.

 _"Actually, there was a fuel shortage on the plane and the President had to stop in Junion first, he'll be in Wutai tomorrow if all goes well._ " Tseng corrected, countering Rufus' memo born knowledge with a bit of Turk born truth. Clearly one of Heidegger's Turks wasn't as loyal as he seemed.

" _That wasn't in this morning's report."_ Rufus complained. He dared his first step, then another, and with care waddled to the screen.

 _"I got the information a half hour ago._ "

Gritting his teeth, gathering his courage, Rufus knocked on the screen, indicating that he wanted out. It slid open at that prompt. With a quiet hiss, well oiled runners ghosted over the track, and heir and Turk, stared at each other for a long moment. After a span a spasm caused the corners of Tseng's tightly compressed lips to twitch. Lifting his hand, fisted, the Turk coughed until he wheezed, and the fist did nothing to hide the fact that Tseng was smiling. Only when the glint of tears rimmed the Turk's eyes did Rufus slam the screen shut on Tseng.

Coughs turned into howls then, howls of laughter and howls of pain.

A Turk was a being touched by instinct, not ruled by it. For a being ruled by instinct is predictable, and that was the same as being dead. Still a moment's mirth was like a moment of pain, little lapses in training did occur. Habit had made Tseng start to trail after his superior and having expected it the Shinra had exploited it. He'd timed his counter just right, and managed to snag Tseng's foot when he pulled the "door" shut.

Childish yes, but as Tseng often said, Lords were allowed little indulgences now and again.


	46. Cultural Appreciation Day part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I forgot to mention but for purposes of this story that all dialogue that has completed sentences in italic indicates that the cast is speaking in Wutia.

Cultural Appreciation Day

Better

 

A few compromises had been reached. For example, on the matter of shoes they had settled on his wearing an old pair of sneakers. Blades had been eschewed by the younger, but the elder could -and did- wear as many as he wanted.

" _You're not taking your mother's sword_?" Rufus had asked. His accent thickened Wutia was almost but not quite, slurred. His question came as they passed out through the front door on their way out, the sword in question hung over their heads for the passing, and the question had come out. Later he'd smirk at his innate sense of ironic timing, mutter something about corruption, but for the moment his nagging sense of curiosity was foremost.

To that simple question Tseng had shook his head. The heaviness of that motion alluded to some unhealed pain. Sobered by his Turk's demeanor, Rufus held back from asking anything else.

" _It's a walk, not long, nor short, but a walk. We'll take the subway down a ways into the middle plate_." Tseng said, not bothering to answer the previous query, acting as if it had never been uttered.

So they walked. Neither quickly nor slowly, in truth -well for the heir at least- haste was impossible. Rufus dreaded going for anything besides a quick walk, images of him tripping on the hem of the borrowed garments and face planting were running through his head. His kimono was cast in a hue he favored, but unlike the blocky, one-color clothes, he normally wore he had learned that there was a multitude of whites. Palest, so bright that it resembled fresh snow was the hem, it darkened as it spread, until the body of his garment was only a few shades lighter than his favorite color of pale smoke. A sash of emerald green, a slash of vibrant color, wound around his waist. It was startling on that backdrop of white on white. His hair -much to his chagrin- had been washed. The gel he used to give it a spiked and ruffled appearance had been ruthlessly scrubbed out, and Tseng had been in an evil enough mood to insist on cold water. Ice cold water.

Shuddering at the mere memory Rufus started to shove his hands into his pockets, only to remember that a kimono didn't have pockets. At least on the outside. Small pouches were sewn on the inside, within them was a handful of materia, some gil, and a knife. His gun was back in Tseng's apartment, and Rufus tried to remember if the Turk had his gun. Probably, a Turk without a gun was like a secretary without a mini-skirt, it just didn’t happen. The mass of humanity around him stopped as the light ahead of them turned green. The smaller light flashed red, and it was to that prompt that the pedestrians went still.

Valiantly Rufus tried not to think of sheep and of a herd while suffering the press of humanity, and in the end he failed. The vice president checked a sigh, and wished he had been able to talk Tseng into taking the bus at least. But, the thing about a compromise was that there was giving and taking, and on the subject of riding the bus Tseng hadn't even sniffed at the bait much less nibbled on the tried and true "for safety's sake" argument.

His nose wrinkled in distaste as he picked up a whiff of drugs in the air. Wonderful, by the acidic reek it wasn't a passive Leaf Burner amongst the crush, rather someone who doped on a mystery substance that was more violate than Tranquilizers. Scenting the potential trouble Tseng shifted a bit closer to his charge, the Turk's hand drifting to the hilt of his katana. Stares that had been plentiful now grew to surplus. Trapped at the crosswalk's beginning, those stares were taking advantage of the lag to morph into outraged gapes.

The disapproval of the crush burned against his back with a vengeance. There was no hiding his heritage, his blond hair might have been let down in a style that vaguely resembled the Wutia norm, but he was blonde hair and the blue eyes were doubly damning.

" _Ignore them_." Tseng counseled. _"If they offer trouble I will intervene_."

And unlike say... some clichéd movie where the hero clasped the hilt of his blade or patted it and the rabble parted in response, the words only inspired a few growls from behind. Neck pricking, nerves tingling, Rufus didn't know whether to curse or bless the fact he was "corrupted by long association" with the Turks. For all intents and purposes he _was_ a half fledged Turk himself, he had the instincts, and they were making what should have been a merely uncomfortable scene a private hell.

Considering his Lord from the corner of his eye Tseng nodded, only that, and Rufus dredged up something like a smile. At the very least, he wasn't alone in his suffering. That was something, at least.

XXX

They sat across from each other, the subway hummed about them. Machines couldn't live, but that quiet purr of Mako fueling wires had something of a pulse to it. He listened, to it, and to the man across from him. Save for being in the subway, in odd clothes, the scene was familiar, homely even.

" _You Continentals are fond of saying, "misery likes company". An odd statement, yet it is true. It also attests to the herd mentality that most live by."_

"I've always interpreted it as group mentality, a kinship between people who are weathering a bad situation."

At the answering glare Rufus sighed, and repeated himself, this time in Wutia.

" _Better,_ " with a nod to say the statement was heartfelt, the Turk continued with his earlier vein. " _Now, in answer to your comment, how is group mentality different from herd mentality_?"

Knowing the extended explanation would probably get shot down after the second word, Rufus settled on answering a question with a question. " _How's pack mentality different from herd mentality?"_

" _There is no difference_." Tseng conceded with a toothy grin. " _The only difference between a pack and a herd is diet. Sheep eat grass, and wolves eat the sheep.._."

XXX

One clicked, one squeaked. Both wore robes of light hue. One was clad in the colors of a sky long lost in a layer of smog, the other in hues of smoke and feather down. They made an unlikely pair to say the least, the Continental youngling and the husky Wutia guide. And a pair they were, not a cliché, or a partnership, or a duo drawn together for safety or for the sake of acknowledging some acquaintanceship. The signs were there, in how they walked and how they talked. Though the tides of strangers broke them apart, or the interest of one was gathered by some object familiar to the other, it was apparent to those who had eyes and used them that there was a bound.

So eyes noted, and saw, and then looked away after seeing and noting was complete.

"But _Tseng-sama_."

Heaving a great sigh as a man who was set to some monumental boulder the blue clad man rounded on the younger. _"No, and that is final! Do not make a scene!"_ Blue eyes sparkled, lips quirked, and it went unsaid that the one who yelled was indeed causing more of a scene than one who shamelessly begged. Swallowing his volume, if not his vehemence, the blue clad half-blood concluded. " _You are too young to be drinking, and you will not spend the day in a bar_."

" _You've told me a hundred times that Sake is better than beer and wine_. _And I've drunk before, drunk myself sick, and you've never said a thing._ " Smirking, pleased with his impertinence, the Continental in Wutia garb grinned up at his elder.

Hands clenching, and unclenching, the blue clad Wutia said nothing. He seemed to swell, almost to the point of breaking out of his own skin, so great was his passion. Heads shook at that sight. The indifferent viewers knew by the exchange that both were young, young and not pure enough to see beyond the great skein of the everyday Da-chao wove over the eyes.

" _As your elder, you are to give me respect_." The man snapped, a hiss of Continental accent marring his speech, making the softer syllables heavy and thick.

With a shrug the blond Continental lifted his hands, spread the fingers wide. The boy's face twisted into the most minimal of grimaces when the hand's descent did not end in some fabric sheathed escape. Smoothing the front of his white attire he still grinned, despite his discomfort.

" _Tseng, if I didn't respect you, I wouldn't have anything to do with you. It's that simple_."

" _Then_ ," the emotion smothered words came out slowly, thick with something more violate than a mere accent, _"on the matter of simplicity I shall remind you. This is not our place, this is not our people, remember that always. Such shows as you are providing now will entice scorn, not admiration or amusement_."

Chastised, blue eyes studied the cement sheathed steel that served as the "earth" of the middle plate. Impudence flew on the winds of a sigh, and after a long span those eyes were raised.

The words that followed were alien in terms of language, but not in inflection. "Alright, I'm sorry."

The older man's head dipped, only once. It was a curt kind of nod that sent the loosely bound black hair to whispering behind him. " _Better_. _A little better._ "


	47. Cultural Appreciation Day part 9

Cultural Appreciation Day

Distant

He was, much to his surprise, attacked by a barrage of questions. Unlike cases before when he'd glared upon the inquisitive and squashed the more curious of his interrogators spirit with a show of anger a strange rising of patience overcame him. Within himself was an untapped revenue of patience, and he drew from it, even as he marveled at its depths.

"Well?" Came the expected prompt as if it had been cued. He smiled slightly to see his expectations fulfilled. The glint in his eyes was perhaps a touch reproachful even though the smile on his lips was warm. Predictability was a sin after all, and with gaze he rebuked even as his mouth moved to reply.

Well, why did women bind their feet despite the fact they must walk? Previously spoken, the query ran round and round through his head. The simplistic "they always have" was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed that answer. Tradition to the traditionalist was the purest of logic, but to the poor soul born to a _traditional-less_ world?

Foolery at best, madness at worse.

"It is seemly." He managed, at last.

"What?"

"Appropriate, proper, the look and effort generates a mix of allure and manners." Lip curling in amusement he met cynical silence with unflappable calm. "Unlike those of your circle, those of mine can see such things and not worry over contradiction. Attractiveness, love... they are not always tied with the... physical demonstration." Face turning a bit red the Turk swallowed as he realized the daunting conversations that hadn’t happened. That should have happened.

And that weren’t happening right now.

"Ah." The young Shinra managed to keep a facade of neutrality in place, and his voice was balanced to the point of blandness. One flaw existed, the adolescent’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that why the woman wear small shoes then?"

"Yes, the reason is the same."

They were walking side by side, the station was far behind, almost an hour’s walk at a crisp pace, and the whole "life experience" part of his assignment seemed to be merely them walking and talking. Still there were sites and scents aplenty to make the experience worthwhile. No garish glow in the dark signs declared eateries, rather the screens (or doors, some of the homes had non-Wutia portals of passage) were cracked open a bit. Some places sported signs, small things so light that they spun around in the air at the merest breeze. You had to strain to read the letters that danced on the thinnest strings of parchment. Still he strained and gawked while trying not to be obvious about it. The alien world he found himself in was so odd that he felt less like a tourist and more like an invader of some strange tale.

Never mind that this was in fact his city. That he'd been born and raised here his whole life. Never mind...

He sighed, a sound that his Turk mirrored. Nostalgia and something a bit darker than mere recollection made the Turk's eyes go distant.

It was then, and only at that moment that Rufus realized that Tseng had been born in Wutia. Born on the continent that was sworn enemies to the Shinra Company and all the peoples of Midgar and its surrounding lands. Yes, he'd known it in his head; there were several instances in his life that had brought home the distance that existed between Turk and heir. Language had been one, customs another, beliefs a third, but those had been breached by patience and effort on both their parts.

"Tseng, how did you get to Midgar? I mean... Wutia, Midgar, they're so distant."

There was something of loss in the Turk's eyes, something of regret, but those emotions were illuminated by a glint of light on black. So soft, so faint, they were all but invisible, and only a lifetime of friendship allowed Rufus the faintest of glimpses. Tseng's gaze, normally restless, stilled, and then his eyes closed in something too ponderous to be a blink. Eyes shut the Turk let out a quiet breath. The sound it made was too soft and wistful a thing to be called a sigh.

"Like everyone else after the war," Tseng said, enunciating each word with obvious care, "I came to Midgar by boat."


	48. Cultural Appreciation Day part 10

Cultural Appreciation Day

The Temple

It was different. Sheathed in wood planks too symmetrical to be real, that fake wood had been cleaned, and the cardboard kin that masqueraded as flooring had warped subtly under the barrage of water. The walls were made of painted cement; thin slits served the building for windows. That alone was startling. There were no towering, glistening windows meant to catch the non-existent sunlight. No images of man and his triumphs made in the Divine Name were painted upon those walls. There were no benches to sit at, no pews to kneel behind, no sacred text was subtly set in slots in the seating so that they poked out ready for the wandering gaze to consider in moments of boredom. There was nothing, nothing save a line of people in the back, and it wasn't even a straight line. It bulged and coiled, stirred, a restless snake from beginning to end. Child stood next to beggar, beggar to business man, and a slew of costume in various states confirmed that those of a Wutia church did not conform to the Continental norm of "dressing pretty for the priest".

Some swayed, some stood eyes closed, some stood with eyes wide, but they all were bound by standing and distance from the altar. Clad in yellow, an elderly man at the fore front of the building brandished a small candle, and when that golden flame touched a light blue length that poked out from the edge of an altar the restless line took that as a signal to move. From door to western corner they trod, and in that corner was a gathering pile of shoes. True wood clicked against fake, plastic squeaked, and leather thumped. A hand against the small of his back kept him going in the right direction, a sense of brooding eyes at his back prevented him from floundering and making a faux paw.

Upon reaching the end of the line he knelt, undid ties of lace, and pulled his foot free. Despite training and discipline his nose wrinkled a bit at the stale scent of sweat and unwashed feet that oozed from the pile of shoes, sandals, and one pair of what looked to be chocobo riding boots. Behind him came the familiar clatter of wood on wood, and only after taking a half step on his own that presence guarding his back was... well back. Checking a sigh he submitted to being guided, answering the hundred and one unspoken, half felt motions, with unquestioning obedience. They found their seats half way in the massive room. Thin trails of worn cloth were spilled about, making waves of frayed chromatic make on the floor. It was there -a quickly stolen glance at the mass around him told him- that the knees were to be set. He kneeled, slowly, carefully, -the heated glare at his back told him to slow down louder than any words ever could even before he began his descent- folding himself down, tugging at the hem of his kimono so it wouldn't pool under him, and each motion gained something of grace to it for its sedate execution.

Around him, before and behind, all those in the temple did the same. Gun holsters were shifted; lengths of cloth and costume were pulled close or tucked in place as prudence and modesty dictated. Amongst the worshipers the hilts of the makeshift and true swords were gripped and though sheathed they were steered so they wouldn't scrape against the temple's floor and leave a scar. Besides him Tseng did the same, and the perfection of his motion made the heir twitch with envy. But that envy was quick to fade. It was petty, stupid, and furthermore, sorely misplaced. Tseng had probably been to this temple -or one like it- a thousand times. Tseng acted like he belonged here, like he'd been raised here.

And at that prompt, logic and deduction took their turn. Considering how hostile the Continental’s were of the Wutia wouldn't it be the same on the other end? And even now, in this modern time those born "as a consequence" of the War were despised on the winning side. Considering that, how could a half breed live on the loser’s side, a side that was obsessed with racial purity even in the most peaceful of times? Only one concrete fact came to the surface, and that one was damning. Tseng’s father had been a SOLDIER, one of the conquerors, and his mother had been the victim. Inspired by that tidbit Rufus took another round of self-inflected, mental plumbing. Looking for facts rather than assumptions, but his recollections came up blank. Tseng was close mouthed on matters of his past, and classes in school didn't tell you the truth about cultures, only facts and figures. Still, a Shinra knew people, and this temple, this quiet empty room, had probably been something of a sanctuary to the Turk.

As he bowed low, setting his head to the wooden floor in time with those around him, Rufus wondered... And his wondering was so intense it forbade any thought of prayer.

He waited with perfect stillness until the pain in his skull peaked, and all wondering was banished than summoned anew...

What could one pray for, to a God who was unmerciful, unpassionate, uncaring? As distant and intimate as the sea, Leviathan was Tsunami, was Stream, the life giving clear waters of the main land and the salt tainted temptation of the ocean. His realm harbored the lean meat of fish and the hungry maws of sharks. What could one pray for, or expect from such a God?

Yet, what of the most merciful Divine, the Creator who cast his world in light and threw back the darkness? The monsters that stalked the mainland were just as vicious as their aquatic counterparts.

When belief met practicality, when idealism struck reality and man was set in the closing jaws of two extremes little wonder faith and bodies broke. Little wonder. Still, from the lips that were moving prayers were made, whispered hopes, requests, and dreams. All were uttered to the earth, as if in hope that where the earth and water mingled so too would their words be carried. To the ears and Serpent who offered no comfort from a people who no comfort was needed.

Closing his eyes, savoring the rare span of quiet, Rufus checked a sigh. He felt like an idiot, crouched in this alien temple with his head pressed against the floor. Still, the quiet was good, feelings of idiocy aside, the quiet was good.

Then, with a heart stopping bang, peace fled. From behind a door slammed open. When Rufus moved to rise a hand snapped over his wrist, hard calloused fingers dug into his arm, bringing both pain and warning in one move.

"Well, well, well, what do we got here? A bunch of Wutia and Continental half breeds fawnin' ol' snake face!"


	49. Cultural Appreciation Day part 11

Cultural Appreciation Day

Addition

He paced back and forth, the plastic of tennis shoes squeaking on the tiles. For once he did not bother to hold up a public facade of any sort. Rather he considered his carefully rehearsed speech... but at the addition to his audience he dismissed it. His speech had been for the benefit of the unlearned, the untutored, and he would refrain from insulting one who knew the basics and had come to hear the assimilation of the whole. Shoving his hands in his pockets he managed a quick bow, a gesture of profoundest of respect, and surprised his audience and peers by openly calling the supervisor of this event by the proper Wutia honorific. Amusement glinted in the man's eyes.

"It seems, you've been busy learning, Mr. Shinra _._ " Brown eyes warmed with the amusement adults reserve for clever children Reeve's lips quirked into a smile. "Very good."

Lips curling into a lean Turk taught smile Rufus bit his tongue, one must show respect for ones elders. It was only proper. He wondered, as he gathered his thoughts and words, how long Reeve's amusement was going to last.

"Once upon a time," sniggers met his opening, his peers smirked, a few jeered, his audience of one merely cast him an intrigued look. "There was only one people, one people on a fertile crescent on the outermost edge of the world..."

XXX

"The Wutia are not a people, nor a culture nor a land, nor a language." Tseng waved a hand to silence the childish questions that had been forced upon him. Shining blue eyes glittered with the zest for life only ten or so years old. And the owner of those eyes met his disclaimer with annoyance. To that the Turk dredged up a smile of sorts. "Wutia is everything to the Wutia, boy. Everything. It's the life of a people, the fondness of a land, the turn of phrase found in the favored language, it's the knowing choice to embrace these things no matter the consequence."

Incomprehension met his explanation. But what could one expect from one raised and corrupted by the Continental ways for all of his years?

"Just don't call Wutia Wutianeese, or anything else. Wutia is Wutia."

XXX

"... Legends end somewhere, and history takes its place. We're all acquainted with the facts, of how the Wutia met the Continental and that there was a war. And how we lost. The history books call it a lost battle and they say how the afterwards the Wutia set up a screen of materia made barriers to define their borders. Effectively cutting themselves and the choicer bits of land off from enthusiastic Continental..." The young man's lips twisted from a smile into a disdainful smirk. "-entrepreneurs. But it wasn't a battle we lost; over two generations came and went before the fight was renewed. By purest chance we found materia that exuded the proper frequency to dissolve the barriers set up, and the second that it's powers were confirmed... well, that's where the war started up again. During the beginning of the conflict the Continental were reliant on coal based energy sources, but a business man by the name of Alex Shinra as well as a number of scientific inclined individuals discovered the raw essence of the _terra firm aquetica_... or as the theologians call it... the Life Stream."

XXXX

Images from the edge of vision brought reminiscence forward, making the insignificant... poignant. He saw glossy black and glints of steel. Unable to lift his head he could only catch glimpses, nothing concrete. Still, the gloss and the faint scent spoke to his subconscious, saying one word, _leather_. The harsh words and overwhelming surplus of "attitude" said another, _punk_. Overall the equation was one of stereotype, delusion, with a touch of cruelty that was indicated by actions. The sound of boot meeting flesh was familiar, the hiss of pain the only sound besides the intruders rants.

Snake face, worm worshiper. All in all the taunts were juvenile and laced with profanity drawn from the in Wutia and Continental languages.

 _Half breed_ was his first conscious thought and those words were brought forth by a surplus in his life. A surplus of media, of racial profiling, and the casual talk of genes and genetics, summoned words that should have been an insult. Ironically each syllable was formed without hate and prejudice, merely the logical title supported by the purest academic reasoning. And it was only the lack of inflection -save a sense of smug superiority born of knowing what others did not- that made it so.

The pressure on his left hand was lifted, unconsciously he clenched his fingers, and a dull pain took the digit's place. Saying nothing, doing nothing, he remained as he was. On folded knees, head pressed against the cool wood, eyes half closed. The dull thump grew louder, drew closer, until the whole of his horizon was filled with black dyed and shined boots.

"What do we have here?" Purred a familiar accent amongst an alien voice. "A Conty praying to the worm?"

Hands -reeking of wet leather- snatched at the scruff of his kimono. One grabbed at the scruff of his uniform, the other grabbed a fistful of his hair. He yelped in surprise, then stiffened in outrage. Lifting his gaze at that crude prompt he let his eyes thin into slits of hate, let his gaze promise death to the man who dared humiliate him.

His assailant paled, never mind that he held the upper hand, and to that Rufus smirked. He smirked, and feeling the man's grip loosen a bit he wrenched himself free. Leaving a bit of hair behind and a stinging on his scalp as reminders of the confrontation. Tipped off by the flash of silver Rufus ducked and put his hands over his head, and not a moment too soon. In one fluid motion Tseng was on his feet and his blade was drawn. The rasp of wood scrapping steel as the Turk's katana was freed from its sheath sounded out a moment too late for Rufus' attacker. Whipping the blade before him Tseng didn't blink as the red line across his opponent’s neck thickened and his lifeblood poured out. Skin parted at the steels approach and with a torrent of blood came something frayed and moist that might have been the inside of the throat. Oblivious to the half Wutia's gurgled wail the Turk pivoted so that he faced the other leather clad intruders, his red tipped blade at the ready.

"Who's next?" Tseng hissed.

The Turk's answer came in the form of steel. Broken lengths of steel cradled in clenched hands, eyes pressed into slits of hate, lips curled in primal snarls.

Lips parting into a wide smile, eyes alight in the joy of killing, the Turk let out a cruel bark of a laugh.

"Fine then, I'll kill you all."

XXX

"...Unfortunately, gang violence is a part of modern Wutai life." Arms clasped behind his back, eyes abstract, he looked beyond them all. "After the war, the foundation of their society -honor- was forsaken by a large number of Wutia. Ideals that the Continental take for granted, such as "of the individual over the whole", were no longer feasible. As for the primary foundation of their lives... the dynasty’s that serve as the foundation of their religion, their social structure, and their way of life were abolished, it lead to what socialists call "the decline of morality". The Divine Right had to make way to the new world, and that new world is unforgiving of heritage based hold overs. No longer was immersion in the Continental Culture a choice, rather it became an unavoidable fate. Thus, as they say, the victors write the history books and commandeer the cultures."

XXX

"Unlike Continental structures, violence if not forbidden within. It is frowned upon when it is not taken up at the proper hour, however." Running a length of cloth over his sword Tseng tilted it, lifted it up, and in the murk smeared sky the weapon's edge glinted dully, like lead. "Hence, why I abhor going to the nightly rituals." The Turk said as he slid his sword into the empty sheath.

Piled up like bags of trash, the bodies were set in the alley behind the temple. By the sounds coming through the few slit windows the ritual inside was not even disturbed by the outbreak of violence and its bloody conclusion. Gesturing with his bloody hands Tseng had soundlessly ordered Rufus to take the feet and the Turk had grabbed at the arms. Between the two of them they had hauled out the bodies. The other intruders had fled. The fight run out of them faster than the blood had run out of their compartirates.

Trying to imagine the crazed, frenzy that would serve as a ritual to promote violence Rufus shuddered.

Oblivious to his charge's discomfiture the Turk continued talking, even as he wiped his hands on the cloth that he had used to clean his sword.

"Mother was fond of going to those. She'd often curse my father with the blackest oaths of vengeance and pray for Leviathan to drown the bastard in his own blood, at least once a week."

Looking up from his work Tseng chuckled when he caught Rufus' expression.

"Really Rufus, you're for all purposes a Turk. Talk of superstition shouldn't bother you like this."

"But, where does superstation become belief... I mean..." Heaving a sigh Rufus looked to the bodies.

"We'll leave those. The SOLDIERS in the policing unit will probably find them in a few hours and that information will be in the Turk files tomorrow by latest. I'll tend to the executive details of the murder whenever they find their way to my desk."

"I wasn't worried about that." Rufus lifted his gaze, dredged up a grin and a shrug. "It's not like this is the first time I've killed someone."

Black eyes intent, the Turk stared long and hard at the Vice President, then said in an odd tone of voice. "I am in the mood for some sake."

"I thought you said-" Rufus began to protest but ended it quickly as the Turk turned on his heel and began to walk out of the ally. Realizing that Tseng was going to leave him if he didn't catch up Rufus left both the argument and bodies behind.

XXX

It was a simple case of addition, really. Making a speech could be boiled down to the accumulation of facts highlighted with the crescendo and decrescendo of the voice to alleviate drowsiness. The sad truth was that was all a pure academic speech required. Passion, interest, or relevance, wasn't even being considered in the grading, and therefore was being ignored by the students. He'd yawned through speeches on the Cosmo Canyon Mythos, the history, and the reasons behind their isolationist stance, been bored half to death by one rather spectacular monotonous recitation of dubious "facts" about the Icicle Area's animal spirit belief system, and had actually dozed as one scared stiff peer had stuttered on and on about Gon-whatever-it-was-called's history.

Opinions weren't necessary.

As he summed up the various theory’s on moral decline in the modern Wutia people spewed out by the various ethics "experts" -professors of abstract theories who had never bothered to leave their comfortable, sheltered, teaching positions to do any hands on research- Rufus let his gaze scan the crowd. Though offering the obvious, the excepted theories and arguments, there were some hostility amongst the masses. It was a tame irritation, nothing like the violate mob of the media, and this gathering was made all the more placid by the expectation that "he didn't know what he was talking about" and that "(he) didn't really believe it all". In the end his speech and its opinions were the harmless "parroting of extremists”.

Lean smile still finding home on his lips he concluded with a flourish that was purely Continental, and never mind the Wutia robe that was slung over his shoulders of the hand made sandals that were put in his feet instead of the sneakers that he had made do with nearly a week ago.

The silence was deafening, then like all silences it broke.

From the back came a familiar sound of hand striking hand, and the clap that was produced was dry, the expression on the clapper's face made the motions ironic.

"Mr. Vice President." Black slanted eyes fell on the crowd of students. Adolescents and young adults shuffled out of the way, making a path amongst the masses. With a silent tread the Turk approached this parted sea of sorts, his hands ceased their motions upon the first step and were clasped behind his back on the second. "I am sorry to interrupt, but there is something company related that needs your immediate attention."

Smoothing the edge of his sleeve the Turk's hands twitched ever so slightly. Sight and comprehension were instantaneous and Rufus reigned in the impulse to widen his eyes in shock. Quenching the rookie show of shock the Vice President allowed the twist of his lips became tighter, and his eyes thinned ever so slightly.

"Now really, Ts-" Reeve began to protest, the words died in a startled hiss when the Turk pinned the executive with a venomous glare.

"It's alright." Eyes glinting like shards of ice, the Shinra heir managed to keep his voice level and his hands unclenched. "I'm done here anyway."


	50. One Sided

One Sided

She would smile and simper in his presence. His gaze was enough to cause her reserve to melt, and she all but pool at his feet with her heart in her eyes. Expression unguarded, she shone with adoration, and to that warmth he didn't respond. Peeking up a him from a veil of blonde locks she thought he might have favored her attentions with a shudder. But Turk's don't shudder, they were too well trained. His eyes thinned though, and that much said volumes.

Save that someone had forgotten to hand out the translation memo on her boss' expression. She looked up now, uncomprehending yet seeing...

The fire of her hero worship met the ice of his facade, and never mind physics and logic, the ice didn't melt, it thickened.

His dismissal -narrowed eyes and all- was polite... if curt, and she took his coldness without a wince.

After all Turk's didn't wince, they were too well trained.

She retreated to both solitude and sanctuary, where paperwork was set on her desk and the "outgoing" box was full and the "just in" basket was bare. Taking her seat she set one hand to raking though her hair even as she typed. Her manicured nails scraped lightly against her scalp, yet the motions did nothing to sooth her frustration. Petty as it was her digits raked and tugged, slowly and surely destroying the order a half an hour in front of the bathroom mirror had garnered.

She wasn't ugly, her previous partners had said as much. A little chatty, nervous maybe, but not ugly. Yet... even as she cataloged her faults she recalled Rebecca. The red head was a cool, stoic, Turk, as closed mouthed as Rude and like minded with Elena in one secret aspect. She'd tried, and had been openly rebuffed in public. The planned minor humiliation had been the talk of the Turk's for weeks. Yet, despite that refusal she'd persisted in her own quiet way, and when she'd been sent out to a mission far too advanced for her skills…

Well talk lingered, and the other women in the Turks kept their heads down and their eyes on other less lethal Turks to court.

It was the lure of the unattainable maybe. The sight of the forbidden, out in the open, just waiting...

Her fingers hit the keys with more force than necessary. With a growl she glared at the screen like it was someone that needed to be "eliminated", and blinked in surprise when the dull pain from her fingertips made itself felt. Giving up, she stood, deciding that a water break would be nice. So she stood, and walked, and thought.

No Turk in the organization had ever turned her down, and she'd always been... accommodating before this. But now she was eschewing the few friends with benefits arrangements she'd made among the Turks. And, as a result, there was some gossip starting. She wondered as she viciously jammed the cool water button in -and sent yet another throb of agony along her abused hands- if he heard of it. Heard and guessed...

If so then her life expectancy in the Turks might go down. For a while, as the oversize plastic bottle gurgled and water fell into the awaiting cup, she thought about death. Tasted the grim idea in all it's macabre textures. Then, with a smile she shrugged and dismissed it.

She had known long before entering that the only way out of the Turk's was in a body bag.


	51. One Shot:  Whimsical

The Shinra Files

One shot: Whimsical

She brought the best and the worst out of him in equal measure. Coaxing laughter out of a man who never really had laughed and a smile from the soulless were the least of her gifts.

She brought life to the dead, coaxing greenery from the ash choked earth.

That perhaps was the greatest of her gifts, revitalization. It was the fascination… no obsession of his superiors. To him, despite regenerations' supposed grandeur, her powers were more of an aggravation than a miracle. But then, he was allergic to half the blooms her hands coaxed form the earth. Her whimsical smile, and the smug note to her hum, roused his suspicions as to how "accidental" the selections of growth were. But he never commented, nor was he one to complain.

The arch of her back, the kin of her garb, was his to study form hiding. Only the occasional "snuff" of his stuffed nostrils getting the best of his training to betray his position,

But if he was one not to talk, not to complain, neither was she.

"You should have brought some tissues." She murmured tilting one delicate cream colored blooms so that it's leaves could best catch the sun's light.

He grunted, or rather coughed, as a reply.

"How was your day?"

Silence then, he wasn't one to banter with a target, even one under "protective surveillance" as this one was.

"That's good that you're almost done." She noted to his continued silence, drawing words from nothing, and a lesser wonder out of a girl filled with them was how she always chose the _right_ words. "Any plans for tonight?" She asked the flower.

It wasn't the flower that shook its' head in reply, and though her back was to him she seemed to see the motions. Her humming ceased, a rarity that and the only sound that could be heard within the bounds of the thick concrete walls was the rustle of her dress as she stirred. That and the softer, velvety rustle of lush plant being petted.

Stupid things, plants, between his nose and his skulls staunch pounding Tseng resolved, as he did with every visit, that the only use for a plant was in a salad.

As if to accent his pain his target stroked one of the blooms –an innocent looking yellow thing with a series of freckle like spots that spawned pollen that could only be dubbed cruel and unusual punishment upon exposure- bending low enough so her nose could take a deep draw of the sadistic flora's scent. Still engrossed with her plant, savoring its' delicate blend of scent she smiled, one eye roguishly lingering on his hiding place.

He smiled, despite himself, it was a wide toothy grin that held not an ounce of restraint.

It was one of his bet smiles, or so it was said. The motion was undisciplined, impulsive thing that was laced with warmth and shockingly open and charming. And for all that it violated protocol and was the worst thing for him to do he smiled, and protocol be damned.

"Mother's working late tonight." The target informed the earth, idly patting down one rise, to best coax the wayward rising roots into the earth. Tseng leaned against the wall, his shade stretched against the wall, a black banner against the concrete's grey. His blatant show of presence was something of a rebuke, and though she never turned she seemed to see and sigh for the seeing.

"How obvious do I have to be?" She huffed.

The shadow pulled back, his smile fade into a tranquil tell nothing placidity that aggravated his Continental counterparts

And Ancients as well, the Turk learned.

"Are you, or are you no doing anything tonight?"

Her vehemence was such that he started, then he broke protocol of all stripes, professional and personal code fell away. A deadly mistake that, potentially lethal, but she made him do so for he must respond when she demanded.

"I have no plans, Ms. Gainsborough."

"Don't call me that!"

"My apologies, Aerith."

"Tseng, you don't have another foot to put in your mouth." Aeris noted with an overture of acid to her tone.

"I suppose I could dig one out form somewhere." The Wutia noted blandly. "Or, for the sake of sanitation I could just stuff a hand in as well."

She laughed to that, and to that sound the artic gleam to his gaze warmed. With a stiff bow the Turk conceded defeat, the motion was so minimal that his blue suit barely wrinkled.

"Are you doing something for dinner, Tseng?"

"Eating," the Turk shrugged, his grin becoming a touch mischievous, "shortly followed by the less elegant process of digestion."

It was so easy to enchant her; she fell in love with the minimal, and his inclination towards understatement and candor had quite taken her fancy. Laughing at his curt and somewhat grotesque sally she again inspired a breach of discipline. Without recalling how he made the decision, only acting upon impulse, he strolled from the dark, loitering in her sight at light's edge. A rare event that, and she met lapse for lapse.

She forsook her flowers.

Since the earliest days, at the beginnings of their charade, they'd adhered to the roles Gaia threw their way. He the silent stalker working upon Shinra's behalf, she the innocent soon to be yet never captured victim. Leaving her sport of Flora forgotten she considered him, her green eyes bright with a spark on inquisitive delight.

She loved him when he broke the rules, even as he loved her for living by none.

"Your offer never changes, does it?" He teased.

"Does your answer?" She quipped, green eyes alight with pleasure. She didn't like talking to her flowers, of having to "flaunt" her capabilities to know what he was thinking. She liked to talk face to face, and it was rare that he indulged her in that pleasure.

Amused by her audacity in answering a question with a question –such was a mark between equals, furthermore it was a mark between two equals of formidable power- he chuckled, flashing her his best smile.

"Sometimes."

"And what's your answer this time?" The Ancient smirked, confident that –as always- his reply would be in the negative.

The look of incredulous delight when he answered in the positive was exquisite. Something of shock of the layman hung about her -see the widening eyes, the gapping mouth for exhibit A and B- and something else entirely. With a happy laugh she ran to him and wound her arms around him. One arm obediently stayed wound, the other arm went up and delicate fingers were instantly adhered to his skull. Smiling wide she teased the black, ordered, threads that served as his hair.

Eyes wide in surprise, she was _never_ this friendly, nor this touchy with him as a norm, he almost recoiled out of her embrace. Old instincts surged through him, impulses that would have caused her pain and broken bones had he indulged…

His knees shook, as want battled ingrained need. He savored her warmth even as it confused him, for his soul was ever locked in an endless winter and her eternal spring forever clashed.

His knees shook a bit as she released him. He felt weak yet exhilarated, as if he'd just gained and lost something of vital importance.

"Yes?" She repeated his lukewarm agreement with a delighted little squeak, her leaf green eyes aglow with joy.

"To dinner." He elaborated, best to make it clear form the very outset as to what he was agreeing to least she twist some other concessions out of him. Then, more to fill in the expectant silence than anything else he added. "Your choice, my treat."

"Very businesslike of you, profession-ish to add a few clauses." Her green eyes twinkled, twin mako stars of mirth.

"I keep evil company." The Turk countered, extending an arm. She was a humble creature, posing an innocent grace an boundless enthusiasm and she all but took his arm off in accepting. Fingers, delicate, long, not marred by calluses from gripping the hand hold of a gun settled over his fore arm.

It was a strange sensation.

"I noticed." Aeris teased.

Recalling a line from Aeris' favorite book, the Turk grinned, his black pit gaze all but supping from the life that shone form the girl's own.

"I noticed you noticing."

To that retort she stuck her tongue out, and he laughed at her insubordination instead of punishing her as he should.


	52. Max Velocity: part 1

Max Velocity: The difference between falling and flight

An hour too late

Gravity and weight are constant; it's proven that a feather and a rock will fall at the same rate if dropped at the same time. This phenomenon is called maximum velocity. When enough distance and time pass weight and mass no longer serve as deterrents or accelerators. There's simply the pull of gravity, and the free fall occurring, the rush of resistance serves as a wind of our making, our screams all the turbulence we'll ever need.

Yet, to fall, to truly fall, we must be pushed. To leap is to come to delusion's call, to test wings feathered in illusion, to try tendons and muscles against emptiness that are not. Such a leap does not lead to falling. Each failed flight leads to awakening. For in that final moment, before impact, the eyes surely are wrenched open by whipping winds and encroaching earth draws the gaze.

And, as is the natural cycle of things, the earth reclaims its own, snatching it's stray child from sky to mothering… smothering earth. Then, the Stream intercedes, sweeping up the mortal debris and dust, and all becomes one again…

Thus life moves on.

Staring down at the fast dissolving carrion, Tseng of the Turk's let out a tired sight. Black eyes were rimmed with green as the broken form before him dissolved; fireless flame licked the carrion's edges, smearing the shadows and features until the once vaguely familiar face is but a green tinted blur. In bits and pieces, the stream of light picks up pace, in bits and pieces the boy's matter breaks down and the clothes begin to sag. Last to go is the face, blurred and forgotten, an oval wreathed in green threads, it unravels without features, and to that he sighs. The retreating threads of green slither ab0out him then, pass him by, never touching, never to be tasted, no matter how close he draws, no matter how deep a breathe he indulged, it evades him.

So he stands, curiosity assuaged for a time.

Brushing off grit from his black pants, Tseng blinks back the burning of his black eyes. This one was young, disturbingly so. Of similar height, similar build, had the hair been few hues lighter… he'd have worried.

Ignorant of his thoughts, driven by instinct, his hand dove into the pocket. Idly he caressed the blunted edges of his Turk issued phone. Though the facts were neatly compiled, the unreasoning doubt remained. One more, one action, and he could banish that fear. Confirmation never hurt…

But he was a Turk, the facts were compiled, the signs aligned. Confirmation of what was, was a waste. A waste of time, off money, and in extreme cases it could cause a waste of lives. Confirmation was not relevant, not needed, therefore he restrained himself. The hand that would have opened the phone, turned it on, found the off switch.

One flip later and the phone was off, a rarity for him, but a reaffirmation of sorts. You break policy, you're punished, it goes without saying, and no one was exempt. Not even the President's most prized, head of the Turks would go unpunished. And… never mind he punished himself, he was not above anything, and it did him well to remember that. Shoving the phone deep, wishing he couldn't feel its edges against his leg, Tseng brushed off debris form the sidewalk of his immaculate pants.

While not on the job… he had been called out. A neighbor had heard screams, sounds of a fight an hour ago. Silence then, one final scream, and his phone had rung. A courtesy call, really. SOLDIER was to be sent a mere building away from where Tseng resided, he'd intercepted that order, taken the job without a care how it would make him late. Idle thoughts, about how he could find the root of the racket from days before and perhaps muffle it had been at the foremost of his mind.

Now, he was on the scene an hour too late. Perhaps years too late. Something had broken some subtle nascence of sanity if a child thought flight was an option. Silently the Turk contemplated the pile of clothes that took the place of carrion on Gaia. Black eyes distant, he tried to recall the boy, what he looked like. Surely he'd seen the boy, estranged as he was from those who lived about him; he made a point of recalling names and faces.

Professional tic, obsessive compulsive, a sign of his eroding sanity perhaps, but he should have known, perhaps he did…

But in that moment, all he could recall was what the boy had reminded him of.

There'd been screams before, fights so loud it had woken him from sleep between shifts. He hadn't cared, taken the creed of all of Midgar and stated "it's not my problem" and had walked away and that was that.

Now one child was dead, in the background a mother wailed, a father grieved.

_What did I do wrong? Oh Go, oh God, take it back!_

The cries were the same, the circumstance forgotten in the first flush of grief. Once divided, the parents would grieve as one, than per the norm of their patterns they'd turn on each other. Blame against blame, bitter loss to bright hate. It was a familiar cycle, he'd seen (or more honestly heard) its tamer cycles in saner times even as this child had lived it's cycles.

Had lived and endured until living was no longer an option. The sky had beckoned and the child had answered, seeking flight with invisible wings.

There was nothing to do here, nothing he could do. Closing black eyes, he tried to recall the child's name if nothing else. Nothing came, and because he wanted he did not receive. That was the norm of matters on a planet that was inherently savage, utterly unfair.

Setting his tie, settling it and his thoughts he turned on his heel, hands idly descending into a pocket, ready to call to report, to call and confirm…

He stopped himself, a moment before the thoughtless motion was complete. He was on punishment detail, furthermore, whom was he to report to? Himself? Smirking at that inane thought, the Turk didn't quite chuckle, didn't quite laugh. It would be disrespectful to not the fallen, but the living. Those who grieved nearly a flight and half turn above deserved more than a cold chuckle from a man utterly unmoved by the death of their only child.

He'd put the information in the appropriate file, run it by the statistic labs in human relations, and leave his efforts at that.

It was all he honestly cared to do, so it's all he would do, and he'd leave it at that.

Still, some idle corner worried, wondered, and asked.

_What was the child's name?_

He'd get his answers at the office, he knew the parent's names he'd check their family history and drum up his answer. That idle curiosity could be easily remedied, than he'd get on with his day.

Still, like a disquiet ghost, the question returned, redoubled.

" _What was his name, and why does he remind me of-"_

Snapping a hand into his pocket, he gripped the silent phone, nearly crushed it. The pain of blunted edges against the callouses of his palm was as nothing, the soft crackle of software and hardware protesting was warning enough that he had to stop. For a moment his grip remained, the crackle deepened to a near snap, and to that he relented. When his hand withdrew it was scarred with blockish red lines that had nothing of scars to their history but ached regardless. Still, he had cure material on him; he could do something for the pain.

In the end though, he did nothing.

This was his punishment detail after all.

 


	53. Max Velocity part 2

Max Velocity

Discord

There was a subtle strength in waiting. Refinement could lace the stationary, certainly it suffused those "quiet" moment that the Continental so despised. Hardly Continental he swept from his of office polished shoes clopping across carpet. One turn of the knob, a push later and he exchanged the opulence of his division's floor for the squalor of another. The sound of grit and filth under his feet was ineffably; the sensation though a sole divided it between his flesh was enough to cause his jaw to clench. Thus, teeth bared in what was not a smile, he took the stairway that bound Shinra to earth and earth to Shinra.

A few turns, a cursory glance about, confirmed what he'd expected. No white clad VP lounged indulgently, days "crossed" in some pre-adolescent surge of laziness. Accelerating his pace form a professional walk to a clipped run, he took a few more turns, ascended some more. The VP was not about. Only with hellish effort of will did he refrain from calling out. Forged the dubious pleasure of indulging in the cliché, he refrained from cupping his hands about his mouth and hollering after someone who wasn't there.

So, thus forgoing he turned on his heel, retraced his steps at a dead run. Pulling open the door he stared blankly at the hall he didn't expect, cursing himself for a fool he slammed that door, and with the echoes of closing pounding about him he looked up a flight than down a flight. Unthinking, he'd pounded up more turns than a few, his building panic had blurred the details. Leviathan only knew where he was now.

Seventy stories, plus a grandiose basement level that scythed from first plate all the way to the earth to sink miles below the very crust of Gaia. There he stood, in the unadorned throat that bound Shinra Tower to earth, and dove through the earth itself.

The words he uttered could have pealed paint from the walls. Certainly any who heard them did not need to know his mother tongue to understand the fury they conveyed. Luckily for the walls about him they were concrete, unpainted, unmarked. There was no paint to peel, thus he was spared some expense.

Not all, but some.

Whirling on some trash bin, a plastic atrocity overflowing with paper and filth the Turk snarled. One kick, two, under the third strike the receptacle shuddered, its rounded edge shattered under the force of his steel sheathed boot. That didn't stop him; he upped the assault, calling himself a fool and things a thousand times worse. With a sick sounding thunk his last strike wrenched a sizable hole. What followed was standard. With a wet thud the bag within the canister slithered out, subtly ripping as it caught the jags. Helpless and torn, the canister was bent nearly double under the force of its beating, it's innards a filthy mess. The smell was… indescribable.

That brought him back, the filth, the similarities. Connection made a click, and that soft sound was enough to jar him back to a facsimile of sanity. With one parting glare he turned on his heel. He'd go down since he'd gone up, check every door if need be until he got to where he needed to be.

As to where, the Turk floor of course. The only place in Shinra proper where the signal in his phone would be its strongest and he could make a call. One call, one breech of his own punishment detail, then everything would return to normal. So, with the echoes of his own lapse sounding around him he descended, taking it one floor at a time.


End file.
